


what becomes of curious minds

by charonsdescent



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: (in coming chapters at least), Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Past Quentin Beck/Peter Parker - Freeform, Past Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 82,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23699839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charonsdescent/pseuds/charonsdescent
Summary: Tony turned towards the window, and that’s when he saw it: that flicker of the curtain, and then Tony found himself looking at a wide-eyed kid staring at him from across the way. He couldn’t have been that much older than twenty, with that disheveled, bewildered look that he wore now.For a second, it was as though the boy was stuck in freeze-frame: Tony found dark eyes, messy brown hair, a face too pale for its age.Then Tony felt his lips twitching into a smirk.[or: All of Tony Stark's friends are getting married, which is absolutely, totally, completely fine. However, when he moves back to New York, he finds out about the curious case of the twentysomething Peter Parker living across from him. To be updated weekly.]
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 306
Kudos: 857





	1. Chapter 1

Tony had four good reasons to not go back to New York, and they were all waiting for him at the airport. Steve smiled first, because he was the type to always smile first—to which Tony had no choice but to smile back, because that was what would make everyone the most comfortable—and frankly, after a five hour flight, Tony wasn’t ready to make _this_ more awkward than it had to be.

Tony let Pepper give him a hug, a quick peck on the cheek, which was a genuinely sweet gesture—really, Tony would have been an idiot if he hadn’t seen it coming, but when Pepper pulled away, Tony found it was more difficult to maintain the pleasant smile on his face.

“You look ready for a nap,” Natasha commented. Thank God, she was the only one who wasn’t being absolutely hunky-dory about the whole situation. Good old Natasha. Tony could at least count that much of her, even _if_ she was engaged to Tony’s ex-wife.

“More like a drink,” Tony replied, only half-joking. But again, good old Natasha, she smirked, dispelling the brief tightness in the air that gathered between the small group. “Alright,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Who’s helping me unpack first?”

\--

After being in California for nearly six months, Tony actually missed New York. He used to always complain about New York when he actually lived there—about the crowds, the dirty pigeons, the pollution, the crazy work schedule. But the palm trees and the juice bars of California got old after just a few weeks, and now Tony was mostly glad to be back.

Mostly.

He could probably do without the fact that both of his ex-somethings were getting married. And he was invited to both weddings. It wasn’t that Tony still actually had _feelings_ left over from them: no, he’d move past that point after month two in California. But there was still something undeniably odd about looking at Steve and Pepper and thinking, _ah_ , they were moving on with their lives. Both of them. At the same time.

Tony figured he should have expected Pepper to move on first—it had been years since they had gotten married, divorced. They had settled their relationship about a year before Tony moved out for California, about a year after Tony had started dating Steve. They had moved from awkward meetings between lawyers and themselves to more relaxed nights talking shit about office workers, drinking wine after a particularly long work week. Tony had listened to Pepper complain about the latest men or women she had dated—listened with a bemused smirk because he knew that at one point, he had probably been the subject of those very same complaints (and he was glad that he was no longer included in said complaints).

And Natasha would be with them sometimes, and she’d be smirking into her wine glass too, and now that Tony actually _thought_ about it, he figured he should have seen them coming, too.

Steve had been different. They had known each other since freshman year of college: Steve had been the golden boy who Tony had laughed about with Rhodey. By the middle of freshman year, Steve had become a regular at Tony’s dorm. Things had been good. They had dated after the divorce, and for a blissful year, Tony felt as though he was living a different life completely. Really good. Sleepy mornings. Steve’s hand resting on Tony’s back. Tony coming back from work and sinking right into Steve’s side after a long, exhausting day. But good things didn’t last forever—and of course, they had ended a little more messily than Tony had with Pepper. There were some more fights, some more tears. A lot of Natasha standing in the middle, because she had been a part of their main friend group in college. Until finally, Tony and Steve both waved the white flags. And now Steve was getting married to his childhood friend Bucky in a week. 

“So,” Steve said now, pushing one of the boxes into Tony’s apartment, “how was California?”

“Good,” Tony replied. “Sunny. Beachy.”

“Met any Hollywood stars?”

“Of course,” Tony deadpanned. “I’ve got Brad Pitt’s number right in my phone. Want it?”

“No thanks,” Steve laughed.

“Oh, that’s a relief,” Bucky said, coming in with another box. He grinned at Tony. “I was about to say that it’s a bit too early to start that. Right?”

“You’re right,” Tony replied. “Bucky, why don’t you have Brad’s number instead?”

At that, Bucky let out a bark of a laugh—that was really the only way to describe it, a _bark_ , but a cheerful one. He only walked out to get another box, leaving Tony and Steve to continue unpacking.

Another complication about the upcoming weddings: it would be so much easier to feel a bit daunted and frustrated if both Pepper and Steve’s current partners hadn’t been so _nice_. Bucky was the kind of person who baked bread and went on sunset strolls and could also pick up people like they were dolls. And of course, Tony knew Natasha well enough to know that he couldn’t possibly hate her.

And besides, looking at Steve gazing wistfully out the door to where Bucky had just been, and hearing Pepper’s laughter from the other room after Natasha had said something, Tony knew that they were happy. They were perfectly happy.

So Tony lifted his gaze to the windows instead of the door. He eyed the apartment building across the street. He thought he saw a flicker in the corner of one of the curtains of the windows, but when Tony tried to focus on it, Steve was already speaking again.

“What did you miss the most about New York?” Steve asked, passing Tony a stack of books.

Tony looked at Steve over the books. He missed his friends. More than missing his ex-somethings, he missed the late nights lounging around his sitting room, eating from half-open boxes of pizza at two in the morning. He missed the lightness associated with feeling young, free of responsibilities. He missed the grounding atmosphere of looking around a room of people and knowing full well that they couldn’t change _that_ much.

“Pizza,” Tony decided to say. “I want New York pizza.”

\--

They all cramped themselves into the window seats of Joe’s nearly two hours later, Tony’s things still left semi-unpacked. There were tourists, and there was some shouting, but it wasn’t terrible, because Natasha pretended to slap Steve in the face with a slice, and Pepper laughed so hard that she almost choked on her soda, and Bucky almost fell off his stool. Things were good—pretty good, but things weren’t exactly the same as they had been in their younger, single-r lives.

Because whenever there was the briefest bout of silence, Tony would catch Pepper squeezing Natasha’s hand under the stools, or he would catch Steve looking down at Bucky with a certain softness, and everything would come barreling back to Tony at once, that _ah_. Things were going to be absolutely different, and each passing second of the clock seemed to bring them closer and closer to that sealed promise of their lives being permanently, irreversibly different.

They managed to hustle out of Joe’s, and they wound up walking to Bryant Park. They sat down at the tables near the fountain, and even though it was officially spring, the night air was still cool enough for them to shiver just the slightest under their thin jackets.

“Already missing California?” Pepper asked, looking over at Tony as he tugged at his jacket.

“I missed it the second I stepped off the plane,” Tony said dryly, but when all he got were confused looks, Tony added hurriedly, “Joke. That was a joke.”

Everyone’s features relaxed considerably, and Tony just barely suppressed a grimace as he pretended to get distracted by a passing cyclist. “It’s good to be back,” he decided to say. He fixed his gaze back around to the group. “Really. No place like home, right?” He leaned back against his seat. “And what have you love birds been up to while I was gone? Besides getting engaged and all that.” He flicked at a bit of rust at the side of the table. “Any romantic hikes? Spontaneous road trips?”

“ _This_ one keeps telling me to go hiking,” Natasha said, giving Pepper a sidelong look, “but I would rather die.”

“I’m just saying,” Pepper said, lifting her hands, “some fresh air would do you good.”

“I’m in fresh air right now, aren’t I?”

Pepper smiled. “You know what I mean.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Impossible,” she said, mockingly turning away from Pepper, but Tony knew that smile Natasha wore, and he knew that smile Pepper wore enough to know that this was them being _them_ : this was the routine they had already built in for themselves. It suited them, Tony decided.

“Bucky and I are taking art classes,” Steve shared, ignoring Bucky’s wince as everyone turned to look at them. “You’d be surprised.”

“I’ll say,” Tony said, leaning back against his chair. “Careful, Barnes, if you have any more secret talents, I’ll have no choice but to think you’re a secret agent.”

Bucky gave Tony a good-natured smile. “What makes you think I’m not already one?” he asked.

“Like you could be a secret agent,” Steve snorted, swinging an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “You’d be the _worst_.”

“I think Bucky would make a great secret agent,” Natasha said innocently. “He looks like one. James Bond hairdo and all.”

At that, Bucky turned to Steve, his eyebrows raised. “Hear that? I’d be James Bond. Would that make you the Bond-boy?” He tilted his head to the side. “Let’s see—blond, blue eyes, ridiculously in love with the secret agent—”

“Okay, _okay_ ,” Steve said, laughing, and that made everyone else in the group laugh, which made Tony laugh, because he didn’t really have much choice.

“What about you, then?” Pepper asked, looking at Tony. “Any romantic ventures while in California?”

“Tons,” Tony, flicking again at the rust built up on the table. He watched a few flakes of the stuff drift to the ground before lifting his gaze back around to the people around him. “Every other weekend. Tons of pretty gals, guys. Left a whole trail of broken hearts everywhere I went, will have songs written about me, et cetera.” He pretended to look for his phone, adding, “Did I mention that I have Brad Pitt saved in my phone?”

“So no one,” Natasha guessed.

“Absolutely,” Tony confirmed. He spread out his hands. “What can I say? I’m a busy guy. Had people and places to see.” He lifted his shoulders. “Changed man and all that.” He half-expected Pepper or Steve (or Natasha or Bucky, for that matter) to react at that, or say something, but all he got were ridiculously sincere smiles. Tony figured he shouldn’t have been surprised. Love did that thing sometimes, when everything suddenly seemed so much better. At least, from what he had heard.

“Anyways,” Tony said at last, pushing himself away from the table. He made his way towards the fountain, perched a foot on the edge of the structure. “Bachelor life is doing me just fine. You guys can take all the domestics with you. I’ll be the cool uncle.”

“Of course you will,” Steve said, and there it was again—that ridiculous sincerity that made Tony unsure of whether he wanted to be happy or sad about the whole situation he was in now. Which was stupid, because of course he was happy for Steve—happy for Pepper, too—happy for all the besotted domestic bunch the people sitting in front of him were now, but _damn it all_ if Tony didn’t want to take them all by the throats and throw them into the fountain behind him for looking _so sincere_ —

“ _God_ , it’s getting cold,” Tony said at last, hopping down from the fountain. “Nightcap, anyone?”

\--

The bar they found wasn’t as packed as Joe’s was, but it was still crowded enough that no one could notice Tony sneaking in maybe more shots than any of his companions would have liked. But maybe even if the bar wasn’t so crowded, they wouldn’t have noticed anyways, mostly because they were too busy discussing wedding plans.

“Okay, but you _know_ how Mom is,” Steve was saying to Bucky now. “She’s going to want to sit _there_ —”

“I’ll make flower crowns,” Natasha was saying to Pepper, “but _you_ have to promise to make at least as _half_ of them.”

“How about I make sixty percent of them?” Pepper asked sweetly.

“Now you’re just bragging.” 

Bucky whispered something in Steve’s ear, causing Steve to laugh and bat Bucky away.

Tony snuck in two more shots, and then another shot for the road.

\--

“’m fine—”

“God, no you’re _not_ —Steve, help me out here—”

“How much did he— _phew_ , Tony how much did you _drink_?”

“That doesn’t matter—just help, please—”

Tony was vaguely aware of arms—no, multiple pairs of arms—supporting his shoulders, his back as cold air rushed to meet him. He heard some apologetic mumbling in the background, then the roar of an engine, and when Tony opened his eyes, he saw the red and orange lights of a taxi drive down the street.

Right. He had been in a taxi. Someone had called a taxi. Maybe Steve? Or maybe Pepper. Pepper was the more reasonable one of all of them—she had to have called the taxi.

“Alright, Tony, here we go,” Tony heard someone say near his ear. Male. Definitely Steve, because he knew for a fact that Bucky wasn’t comfortable enough around him to hold him up like this. Or get this close. Came with the ex-boyfriend shtick, Tony supposed.

“Tony.” Female voice. Natasha. Other side. “How’re you feeling?”

“Great,” Tony slurred. He opened his eyes, made out Natasha’s narrowed eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m _great_.”

“Of course you are,” Natasha said, patting Tony’s shoulder. “Up we go.”

There was the warmth—the apartment’s heated lobby, and then Tony smelled that stale smell of elevators as Steve and Natasha guided him inside.

“Did anyone see how much he drank?” someone asked. Worried voice. Definitely Pepper.

“Saw him have a couple,” someone else answered. Bucky. “Lost count after a while though. How’s he holding up?”

“ _Great_ ,” Tony repeated, trying to swing around to find Bucky, but Steve held him back, his grip tight. Always absurdly tight grip, that Steve. “’m doing great, thanks for asking. Real gentleman, you—”

“Yup, he sure is,” Natasha said, patting Tony on the shoulder again. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. Tony caught a glimpse of their reflections in the shiny doors: Tony’s hair a mess, Steve’s eyebrows drawn together, Natasha looking backwards at Pepper. And then they were all heading out of the elevator, walking (well, Tony stumbling) down the hallway.

“Keys?” Steve asked.

“Got it,” Natasha replied, and before Tony could react, he felt her hand dig into his pockets.

“Rude,” Tony mumbled. “ _Rude_.”

“Sorry,” Natasha replied, not sounding sorry at all. She handed something over to Steve, who handed it over to Bucky, who opened the door with a quiet click.

There was some more stumbling, some more staggering, someone making a low keening sound—ah, that was Tony, he realized, and then Tony was looking out his windows—he thought he saw another flicker of a curtain from the window across from him, but then he was staring up at the ceiling, at Natasha, Steve, Bucky, and Pepper’s faces swimming above him.

“He looks like crap,” Bucky commented. “Is he going to be okay?”

“He’ll be hungover as hell,” Steve replied. “Killer headache.”

“That’ll probably be the least of his worries,” Natasha said.

“Can hear you,” Tony mumbled. “Right here.”

“Good job,” Pepper said. She disappeared from Tony’s side, re-appeared a moment later with a water bottle. She set it down somewhere—coffee table—and standing up, added, “I don’t feel good about him staying alone.”

“We can stay behind,” Steve said. Even in Tony’s hazy state, he already knew that _we_ was referring to Bucky and Steve. “We don’t live too far away, anyways. No hassle, right?”

“Just so long as you’re the one with the puke bucket,” Bucky said.

“Done deal,” Steve said, though Tony caught the grimace that followed.

“’m fine,” Tony repeated, attempting to sit up, but—bad move, the ceiling seemed to spin above him, and he sank back into the couch with a thump and a groan. He made out Steve and Pepper’s faces above him, both of them wearing equally worried expressions, and that was all Tony saw before he promptly decided to go under.

\--

Tony woke up to feeling as though someone had run him over with a truck. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the grey light, Tony reached to the side, his hand knocking over at the water bottle. He swiped it up, vaguely remembering an exasperated looking Pepper setting it down next to him.

Tony managed to prop himself up by the elbows. He took a few sips, looked around his living room. There were still some half-unpacked cardboard boxes littered around the entrance to his kitchen, around the door to his bedroom. Tony looked to the side and found Steve and Bucky sleeping on the ground, their faces tilted towards one another.

Tony puffed out a sigh and swung his legs off the couch, instantly regretting the quick movement. Barely suppressing a groan, Tony managed to get to his feet, one hand gripping the armrest of the couch for support. His head hurt. So did his eyes.

Tony started to move towards the bathroom, careful not to wake Steve or Bucky. He only took a few steps before he caught movement in the corner of his eye.

Tony turned towards the window, and that’s when he saw it: that flicker of the curtain, and then Tony found himself looking at a wide-eyed kid staring at him from across the way. He couldn’t have been that much older than twenty, with that disheveled, bewildered look that he wore now.

For a second, it was as though the boy was stuck in freeze-frame: Tony found dark eyes, messy brown hair, a face too pale for its age.

Then Tony felt his lips twitching into a smirk.

And then the face disappeared behind the curtain once more, leaving Tony back to himself.

“Dumb kid,” Tony muttered, and he decided it was time for him to take a piss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wished he had stayed back in his apartment.

If Peter had it his way, he would have stayed in his apartment, but MJ and Ned were already waiting for him outside his door, which meant that Peter couldn’t make up some half-assed excuse this time. So Peter tried his best—which meant a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt at the very bottom of his dresser. He picked off some of the lint, took one quick glance at his reflection in the mirror, and deciding he didn’t _totally_ look like an absolute shut-in, he swung open the door.

“There he is,” Ned said first, stepping back so Peter could close the door behind himself. “Looking good.”

Peter knew that was a lie, but he smiled at Ned anyways. “Where are we going?” he asked, pocketing his keys.

“Found this great brunch place,” MJ said. “Mimosas. Drag queens. Pancakes the size of your head.”

But twenty minutes later, Peter was sitting across MJ and Ned at their usual table in the corner of their usual restaurant with their usual dishes. MJ stole some of the fries that came with Peter’s sandwich, and Ned made little airplanes out of their napkins.

“So how’re you holding up?” MJ asked at last. “How’s the job?”

“It’s going okay,” Peter replied. He fidgeted with one of his fries. “Sent in all the corrections at record time.” Actually, he had sent in all of the blueprint corrections faster than any other employee in the firm’s history, according to Peter’s boss. He had been labeled some whiz kid, but Peter kept those emails in the trash folder.

“Record time,” Ned whistled. “That’s pretty good, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “They might give me a pay raise.”

“Or a promotion,” MJ pointed out.

“Or that,” Peter said. But he would have rather had the pay raise. Promotions meant actually being at the firm himself, going to actual meetings with people who were more important than him. His work now was flexible enough to keep Peter in his apartment, just the way he liked it.

“And how are other things?” MJ asked. “Sleeping?”

Peter shrugged. “Fine,” he replied. “Got seven hours.” Which was seven hours more than Peter used to get.

“That’s great,” Ned said. “Really.” 

“What about you guys?” Peter asked. “How’re things?”

The rest of the hour went by with blow-by-blow tales of MJ’s terrible life as a paralegal and Ned’s terrible life at the software firm, and even though Peter knew that their complaints were exaggerated and too animated, he still appreciated the gesture. He quietly ate the rest of his sandwich, nodded, smiled, laughed, winced at the right moments. He was getting better at that—and he knew that his friends could at least appreciate that much, even if he still refused to go out past eight o’clock.

And he felt bad about that too—because he knew that MJ missed their stupid trivia nights at the bar, and he knew that Ned missed their movie marathons at the one theater that still played whole movie trilogies back to back until two in the morning. They were trying, though.

When the waitress came by with the check, Peter almost felt proud of himself—no dizzy spells, no excuses, no nervous ticks. They had passed the time smoothly, and when Peter smiled up at the waitress, he felt his friends’ pride too, saw the little exchanged smile between MJ and Ned because they wanted this to be normal, too, they so badly needed this to be normal—

“ _Fuck!_ ”

The entire restaurant went quiet as heads turned to the source of the shout. A young man was pushing himself away from the table as the woman sitting opposite him tried desperately to tug him back, her eyes scanning the restaurant in embarrassment. “Dave, sit down—you’re causing a scene—”

“ _I’m_ causing a scene?” the man asked, slamming a hand down on the table. “ _You’re_ the one _fucking_ with—”

“Come on,” MJ said suddenly, scooting out from the table. “Let’s head out—”

“I’m not _fucking_ him,” the woman was saying, but the man shouted something else—something that suddenly got drowned out in Peter’s ears, and then Peter was stumbling out of his seat, scrambling for his jacket—he needed to put on his jacket, where were the arm holes?—his feet shuffled forward, and all Peter saw were the tiles of the floor, and then he was semi-aware of Ned’s hand on his shoulder and the heels of MJ’s boots in front of him, and then they were shoving themselves out, out, out of the restaurant, and Peter felt cold air sting his skin, gasped—let the air sweep into his lungs—

“Fucking asshole,” MJ muttered, tossing a dirty look at the restaurant. “Shouldn’t be screaming like that in public.”

“No kidding,” Ned said. “That was something else.” Then he stepped in front of Peter, his brows furrowed together. “You okay?”

Peter swallowed. _No_ , he wanted to say.

“Yeah,” he said. He brought in a shaky breath, tried to force a smile, but his lips felt numb, whether from the cold or something else, he couldn’t tell. “Totally.” 

The lie stretched the silence between the three of them—because they all knew it was a lie, but no one was willing to admit it just yet.

Finally, MJ let out a huff. “Anyways, what an asshole,” she repeated. She turned to Peter. “Come on—wanna go see a movie?” But they all knew what Peter was going to say, because even as she said the words, MJ’s shoulders dropped just a little bit.

“I think I’m actually gonna head back,” Peter said, and he hated himself then as both MJ and Ned gave him their own shots at a genuine smile. They nodded at each other, and Peter scuffed his sneakers against the ground, the sandwich sitting like a cement block in his stomach.

“Okay,” Ned said finally, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “That’s cool. Maybe next time.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, looking between Ned and MJ. “Totally.”

But they ignored the fact that Peter had said that last time, and the time before, and the time before that. There were always the promises of movies to be watched, walks in the park to be had, dumb nights in the arcades and the bars to be spent. For now, though, Peter walked in between MJ and Ned back to his apartment.

\--

Peter’s average day went a little something like this: at seven, he’d wake up to his alarm. He’d scroll through emails and Instagram for a good half hour before realizing that he should probably actually get up for real. He would try to get in some movement: stretching, some full-body workout shouted by fitness trainers on YouTube. By eight thirty, Peter would have taken a shower. He would eat breakfast—sometimes toast, sometimes eggs, but almost always cereal.

And then he would push back the curtains of his window, just in time to see Steve Rogers from across the street doing the same.

Peter couldn’t remember when he started the habit of looking out his window to just take a quick peek at his Prince Charming-like neighbor. But Peter _did_ know that since the first day he moved into this small apartment, he had made the mistake of looking out the window and seeing Steve Rogers coming in after what Peter would later realize was his daily morning run. Steve had been wearing a blue shirt that was distractedly too tight, earbuds still plugged in.

And maybe it was just the fault of whoever had built these apartment buildings in the first place, but Peter found himself looking out the window every few hours since that first day, just to catch another quick peek at what his Prince Charming-like neighbor was doing. Sometimes he was watering some plants, sometimes he was just straightening books on the shelves. Sometimes he was just pacing around the apartment, talking on the phone.

Peter would have been happy enough to just keep watching from the distance of his apartment, but one destined block party had brought him stumbling right into his neighbor’s path. It had been a warm day: that much Peter remembered. He knew it was a warm day because he had been an idiot to wear a sweater when it was nearing seventy degrees. He hadn’t meant to come outside: he had just meant to pick up a package, but there Steve was, offering Peter Parker a water bottle with the gentlest smile on his face.

“A little warm to be wearing a sweater, don’t you think?” Steve had teased, and Peter’s face had heated up more than it already was. He remembered stammering something, and he had almost spilled the water all over himself.

He saw Steve more often after that. Sometimes would purposely take a few bold steps out of the apartment building just coincidentally in time for Steve to come running around the corner from his run. And Peter would pretend that he was _oh, just chilling_ , and Steve would smile and give him a wave. They’d exchange pleasantries—Peter found out that Steve was a teacher, and that he liked summer more than he liked autumn, and that he actually kept a running list of movies to watch and music to listen to. Peter recommended a few movies once, and when Steve had told him that _Aliens was pretty awesome_ , and _I jumped way too late on the Star Wars trend, huh?,_ Peter had gone back to his apartment feeling as though he were walking on clouds.

Peter had gotten used to Steve Rogers. In a way that was incredibly stupid and incredibly vain, he had gotten used to this total stranger despite the fact that he still couldn’t get used to some loud voices or quick footsteps.

So after Peter said his goodbye to MJ and Ned, he turned to the window, already searching for Steve Rogers’ familiar shape across the street, and—

 _Huh_.

There was someone else in the apartment. A not-Steve Rogers.

Peter frowned, coming closer to the window. There was a different man, one with a dark beard and a pair of sunglasses. The man took off the sunglasses, surveyed the apartment with sharp eyes. _Where was Steve?_

And then, as though sensing Peter’s thoughts alone, Steve Rogers came walking through the door, carrying a large cardboard box. Peter saw Steve’s lips moving, then the other man was turning around. Peter watched as a smile stretched across the man’s face, and Peter sunk a little lower, down to the window sill as he took in Steve’s laugh.

 _Were they together?_ Peter’s heart squeezed at the prospect, and he felt stupid being disappointed, because it wasn’t like he had a shot with Steve Rogers anyways. (Peter, a twenty-two year old who couldn’t walk out of his apartment building without wanting to run back inside, with Steve, a clear thirty-something who jogged every morning? Please.)

Peter rested his chin against the window sill as he watched Steve open the cardboard box. Steve and the man tugged out some books, some trinkets. _He was moving in_ , Peter realized, his heart giving another idiotic squeeze. _Of course_.

The not-Steve Rogers had to be older than Steve, though—by at least a few more years, because even from here, Peter could see just the lightest shots of grey in the man’s hair.

But then another man came into the apartment, followed by two women. Peter narrowed his eyes, not used to the sudden flooding of people into this apartment. The women were holding hands, giggling about some shared joke as the other man—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair tied into a ponytail—dropped another cardboard box down next to Steve.

And then that man was leaning down next to Steve, planting a gentle, light kiss on Steve’s jaw, and then Peter watched as the first man—the one who had the sunglasses—was turning away, directly towards the window, and Peter let out a sharp breath, ducked just before he could be seen.

Heart pounding, Peter waited one second, two seconds, three, four, five, before he could lift his head back up to the window.

 _So he’s not the boyfriend_ , Peter decided, watching as the sunglasses-man unpacked the rest of his belongings. Not with _that_ look on his face.

Peter almost felt bad for sunglasses-man.

Well. Peter stood up, turned away from the window. Well. Mystery solved.

\--

It was one in the morning when Peter finally decided to go to bed. He hadn’t meant to—but now he pushed himself away from his desk, searched blindly for the power button on his laptop. He stretched, rubbed a weary hand over his face before looking out the window, just in time to see the lights of the apartment across his turn on. He hovered by his desk as Steve Rogers came tumbling in, arms supporting the sunglasses-man. Despite himself, Peter took a step towards the window, watching as the sunglasses-man swayed dangerously between Steve and one of the women from before: a woman with red, short hair who looked both annoyed and concerned.

Peter watched as Steve and the woman lowered sunglasses-man onto the couch, watched as one of the other women—tall, blonde—came rushing in with a water bottle. The man with the ponytail—Steve’s actual boyfriend, Peter remembered with a wince—was saying something, and then the two women were walking out of the apartment, and it was just the three men, sunglasses-man still passed out.

Peter shook his head to himself. _What a mess_ , was all he thought before heading to bed.

\--

Peter slammed his alarm quiet three times before he finally rolled out of bed. He looked through his emails. His boss had sent him another quick message of encouragement: _wonderful job, thank you for keeping up with the corrections so quickly!_ He scrolled through Instagram. One of his old college classmates had just gotten engaged to a high school sweetheart.

He rolled out of bed, decided he was too tired for any jacked trainer to shout at him to do burpees or push-ups or what other painful workout there was to be had on YouTube. He settled for a shower, though, and he managed down a granola bar before sitting back down in front of his laptop. There would probably be more blueprints waiting for him to correct—more little mistakes that engineers left behind in their own overworked stupor.

Peter logged onto his laptop. He lasted only a few minutes before the curiosity started to creep in again—was Steve still in the apartment?

Before Peter could stop himself, he stood up and pulled back the curtains. Yes, Steve was still there—he was laid out on a sleeping bag on the floor. _So this wasn’t his apartment at all_ , Peter thought. Steve had just been looking after this apartment, he guessed. So did that mean—

Peter stopped dead in his tracks.

Sunglasses-man was awake, staring straight back at Peter.

Peter’s heart plummeted. _Oops_. For a second, he could just stand there, meet the sunglasses-man’s confused expression as Peter just stood frozen. Sunglasses-man looked tired, mostly, with his eyes still a little bleary from last night’s activities, but he was definitely awake. Definitely alert.

And then, unexplainably, slowly, sunglasses-man _smirked_.

That was somehow what got Peter moving. He yanked the curtains back, shutting the apartment and sunglasses-man out of view.

Peter lasted a minute before the full realization of what had just happened settled in.

“ _Fuck_.”

Peter pushed his hands to his burning face, his mind already running with the possibilities of what was going on in that apartment right now. He pictured sunglasses-man waking Steve, telling him something about the weird kid living across the street who peeked—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Peter repeated, and he spun back around to the curtains. Was sunglasses-man already waking Steve up? Before Peter could think better, he tugged at the curtains again—

Sunglasses-man was coming back into the room. Steve was still asleep. And then, lifting his head up, sunglasses-man smirked again at Peter. Pointed. _I see you_.

Peter let out a small strangled sound and quickly closed the curtains.

“ _Fuck._ ”

\--

Well, at least being embarrassed was a somewhat more normal feeling.

But _fuck_ , that was embarrassing.

\--

He had to go out _sooner_ or later. Peter was well aware of the fact that he needed to take out the trash. It had been piling up in the last week, as all trash did. But maybe it was because of yesterday or because of the weather or because of the fact that he had just been found out by the stranger in the apartment across from him, Peter found himself staring down at the trash, unsure what would be the next course of action.

“Can I go to jail for looking into someone’s window?” Peter blurted to MJ once she got on the phone.

There was a beat. And then, MJ asked, “Were you looking into someone’s window?”

“Not on purpose,” Peter said quickly. Then he winced, remembering all the times he had innocently looked out his window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Steve. “But I might have seen my neighbor across the street a few times. Um…” Peter started to go near the window, stopped himself. He whirled back around to the trash bag laying at his feet. “There’s a new guy. I saw him this morning, and he gave me this weird _look_ , and he pointed to tell me that he knew that I saw. Is that—”

“You’re not a peeping tom, if that’s what you’re asking,” MJ interrupted. There was some shuffling on the other end, and then MJ added, “There’s some more legal stuff about this, but there’s a whole laundry list of reasons why accidentally looking into someone’s apartment window doesn’t count as peeping or stalking or whatever.” Then, her voice softening, she added, “And who knows, he might have just had a weird sense of humor. What was the look?”

Peter paused at MJ’s tone. He knew that tone. It was the same tone his aunt had used after he got back on the first night, right after he had come hurtling into her apartment with nothing but a backpack of his things and a split lip.

“You’re right,” Peter said at last, casting a wary look at the window. “It wasn’t…like that.” And it hadn’t. Not with that smirk. He let out a shaky breath. “Sorry. I was just—”

“It’s okay.” MJ’s voice was quiet. “You’re okay.”

 _Am I?_ Peter wanted to ask, but he only nodded. Then, remembering that MJ couldn’t see him, he said, “Thanks.”

“No problem. I gotta go—my boss probably thinks I’ve clogged up the toilet or something. But I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” Peter heard himself say. “Later.” He waited until MJ hung up first, and then, pocketing his phone, Peter looked back down at the trash bag. He had to get it out of the apartment.

Puffing out an exasperated sigh, Peter swung on his jacket. He shoved on his sneakers, grabbed the trash bag, and walked out the door. He kept his key in his hand, clutching it so tight against his palm that he could already feel the little imprints left in his skin. He ignored the elevator, deciding to instead trudge down the stairs. The sound of the trash bag _thunk_ ing against the stairs was oddly satisfying to Peter, calling out a steady and familiar rhythm that seemed to coincide with Peter’s heartbeats. Peter would just take the elevator when he went back up.

Peter reached the door at last, and he had to take a second to adjust to the bright light of the March sun. He blinked a few times, and then, when he could actually make out the trash deposit, he started walking over. Peter only took a few steps, narrowly avoiding a patch of black-slushed snow before he heard footsteps coming from around the corner.

Peter stilled, his fingers curling tightly around his key—not one pair of footsteps, _two_ —

“Morning!”

Peter spun around, a jolt rushing up to his chest at the voice that could only belong to Steve Rogers.

Steve was wearing one of his ridiculously tight athletic shirts, a pair of running shorts. The lightest sheen of sweat had covered his forehead, but besides that, he looked—well. He looked just as Prince Charming-esque as usual.

“Hi,” Peter said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as high-pitched as it did to his own ears. “Are you—” He cleared his throat. “How are you?”

“Doing well, thanks,” Steve said, coming to a slow stop. “You? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Peter’s heart did a little jump, but then, shrugging as casually as he could, he replied, “I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, well, don’t drive yourself too hard,” Steve said. He lifted his face up to the sky, the sun catching Steve’s blond hair, blue eyes. “It’s a nice day and all.” He glanced over at Peter with another kind smile. “Don’t want to stay cooped up with spring around the corner.”

Peter tried for a smile of his own. He searched for something to say—something funny, smart, anything, but instead, Peter just looked down at his shoes.

“Well,” Steve said after a beat, “seems like I lost my running buddy today.”

“You’re running buddy?” Peter repeated, and then he was looking over Steve’s shoulder, because there indeed was someone rounding the corner.

And then the man was getting closer and closer, until Peter could make out a beard, dark eyes, dark hair with shots of grey—

And then the man was right next to Steve, catching his breath—

Peter’s heart plummeted.

“Caught up finally?” Steve asked lightly.

“I thought I did pretty well, actually,” the man replied, but Steve only laughed.

Then, turning to Peter, Steve said, “Peter, this is Tony. He just moved back in.”

And that was when the man—Tony—lifted his head to look up at Peter.

Peter’s breath hitched. At first, he thought that Tony might not recognize him—they were standing so much closer now, and Peter could make out the smile lines curling at the corners of Tony’s eyes, could see the lighter bristles in Tony’s beard that varied from light to dark browns. For a moment, neither said anything, and Peter was about to relax, because yes, Tony had only seen him for a second, so he couldn’t possibly recognize Peter—

But then Tony’s eyes widened a fraction of an inch, and then his lips twitched into the briefest smile.

Peter wished he had stayed back in his apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos are greatly appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kid looked like he was a deer caught in headlights. You know, big Bambi eyes and everything.”

Tony didn’t really know what to make of the kid who had been looking out the window just a few minutes ago. At least, that was what he told himself as he walked back out of the bathroom. He glanced back at the window, and finding that the kid hadn’t poked his head out again, couldn’t help but smirk to himself. So his new neighbor had a tendency to peek. Fine. That was fine.

Not that Tony actually blamed the kid. Sure, the apartment buildings were close together. And the boy had only been looking for a second. But Tony remembered how startled the boy had looked when Tony met his eyes—he remembered the quick flash of brown hair, wide eyes, and then the sudden duck out of the window, as the boy had done something wrong.

Well. Steve had been looking after Tony’s apartment during the last six months—maybe Steve would know a thing or two about Tony’s new twitchy friend.

“So, do you know any peeping toms around here?” Tony asked when Steve finally woke up. Steve, eyes still bleary with sleep, took a few seconds to focus. And a sleepy Steve was a comical one—Tony knew that too well, and the sight was a little too familiar. But Tony wasn’t an idiot. He remained lounging on the couch, taking slow sips from the water bottle.

“What?” Steve asked finally, his voice lightly slurred.

“Peeping toms,” Tony replied, taking another sip from his water bottle. “You know the kind. _Rear Window_ situation. Random neighbor watching your every move via binoculars.” He paused. “Well, not that the kid _did_ have binoculars—”

“What is he _talking_ about?” Bucky mumbled from one of the sleeping bags. He slowly sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “And why’re you up?”

“Spite,” Tony deadpanned. He took another sip of water. “Also, I had a weird feeling that someone was watching this place yesterday. Woke up this morning and found out, surprise, that your little neighbor across the street has a tendency to take peeks.”

“Neighbor across the…” Steve’s voice drifted, his brows furrowed. And then, a second later, a relieved look spread across Steve’s face. “Oh, you mean Peter?”

“So you know him,” Tony said, satisfied that _yes_ , he had guessed correctly. 

“Yeah,” Steve said, throwing back the sleeping bag. He stood up, stretched his arms over his head. “Peter Parker—he’s just a kid. Kind of shy.” He looked to the window. “The buildings are pretty close together,” Steve said. “I see him sometimes too. Kid daydreams.” He cast a sidelong look at Tony. “He’s no peeping tom.” Looking for some more support, Steve looked over his shoulder. “Bucky, I’ve told you about Peter, right?”

“The kid?” Bucky asked, his voice still drowsy with sleep. He pushed himself out of the sleeping bag. “Yeah, sure. Shy. Kinda nerdy.” He yawned. “Definitely not a dirty peeping tom. Not in his nature.”

“See?” Steve said, turning back to Tony. “If you saw him, it was probably by accident.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony replied, pushing himself off the couch. “Relax, I wasn’t going to press charges or anything.” He walked towards the kitchen, adding over his shoulder, “But not gonna lie, that was some surprise to wake up to.” He turned back around fully to Steve, who had started rolling up the sleeping bag. “Kid looked like he was a deer caught in headlights. You know, big Bambi eyes and everything.”

“He’s just shy,” Steve said again. He nodded over to Tony. “He actually moved in here just as you were leaving.”

“Fascinating,” Tony intoned, though he didn’t really find it so. He made mental note to keep the curtains drawn in his less…awake hours. The last thing he needed was to find out that he had been walking around his apartment without pants with that nervous neighbor of his. “Eggs?”

“Gotta ask again,” Bucky said, pushing himself out of his sleeping bag, “why are you _awake_? _How_ are you awake?”

“And I’ll reply again,” Tony said, pointing at Bucky, “spite.”

“Or experience,” Steve muttered.

“Heard that.”

“Bet you did,” came Steve’s reply.

“Don’t insult the chef,” Tony said. He opened the refrigerator. At least he had half the mind to get some groceries while unpacking his things yesterday, otherwise he was fairly certain they would just have to rely on boxes of stale cereal. “Eggs?”

“As long as it’s not an omelet,” Steve said.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tony said loftily, taking out the egg carton. “I make great omelets.”

But he made scrambled eggs—the easiest out of all the eggs to make, obviously—and toast, and in a few minutes, Tony was sitting in front of Steve and Bucky. They talked about nothing at first: weather, the moving process, whether Tony was going to re-decorate the apartment at all. And talking about nothing felt safe, comfortable, no matter how boring the conversation was. Tony would gladly take boring at the moment, because he had vague memories of last night, and he would rather not replay those memories in front of Steve and Bucky.

“So we’re running?” Steve asked now, taking the empty plates.

“Who’s _we_?” Tony asked.

“You, me,” Steve replied, turning on the sink. He looked over his shoulder. “Get some fresh air into you.”

“I had plenty of fresh air in California,” Tony said, but ten minutes later, he was looking for his sneakers amongst the cardboard boxes. Steve waited patiently at the door, and then eventually, Bucky was looking for Tony’s sneakers, too, which bothered Tony more than it probably should have, because of _course_ Bucky would help look for Tony’s sneakers—

“Not joining us?” Tony asked eventually, when Bucky found Tony’s sneakers.

Bucky gave Tony a crooked smile. “Running’s not my thing,” he replied. “Plus,” he said, pocketing his hands, “someone’s got to respond to all the wedding emails.”

 _Ah_. “Funny,” Tony said lightly, shoving on his sneakers, “I always figured Steve would be the one answering the emails.”

“That’s his problem,” Bucky replied. “He likes answering the emails a little _too_ much.” He clapped a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “So keep him distracted for as long as you possibly can, if possible.”

“He’ll be busy waiting up for me to catch up to him,” Tony replied, standing up. Bucky grinned at that, and Tony managed a smile of his own before heading out of his room. “Take it easy on me,” he told Steve as he swung on his jacket. “I’m used to running in nice weather.”

“Sun’s shining,” Steve replied cheerfully. “That counts as nice weather.” He stuck his hand out. “Keys please.”

“Still don’t trust me?” Tony asked, setting the keys in Steve’s hand.

“Don’t wanna lose my running buddy,” Steve responded. Tucking the keys in his pocket, Steve jerked his head out the door. “Come on.”

Tony grimaced and followed Steve out of the apartment.

\--

Tony remembered why he waited running with Steve.

Steve wasn’t a bad _runner_ , not by a long shot, but he was unbearably patient. Tony could tell that Steve was fighting the urge to run faster, and Tony couldn’t blame him—Steve could run for miles and miles and miles, and Tony knew that because he had _seen_ Steve run for miles and miles and miles. Tony, in the meantime, was already regretting the run at all. Cold air filled Tony’s lungs, and while the late March air had felt comfortable for the first few kilometers, now Tony’s own hot breath clashed unpleasantly with the cold.

“Go ahead,” Tony finally said, trying to keep his voice as level as possible. Suave. Real suave. “I’ll catch up.”

“You sure?” _Damn_ Steve—Steve, of course, didn’t sound at all out of breath.

“Yeah,” Tony replied, because of course, “yeah” was the only thing he could manage to make out when he felt like his lungs were going to collapse if he said anything more. He was already regretting speaking so much a second earlier.

“You know the way, right?” Steve asked.

Tony only managed a nod, and then Steve was off—just a little faster at first, just barely past Tony, but in just a few seconds, Steve had already reached the end of the block, while Tony still lingered ways behind. In some ways, Tony was a little relieved—at least, he didn’t have to worry about Steve holding himself back anymore.

Tony was also tempted to just stop running altogether, especially when Steve disappeared around the corner, but then, considering that Steve might double back if he didn’t see Tony behind him, Tony kept up with his (albeit slower) jog.

Tony passed other joggers, all of which were just as pink-faced as Tony probably was. At first, Tony just saw single joggers like himself: a girl with a high ponytail, a man with too-short running shorts. But then, as Tony rounded the corner, he found more couples: _why were there so many couples?_

With their matching sneakers, outfits, exchanged knowing looks, Tony could only tell a little too well which pairs were either just friends or something more. Which was fine. People were fine and fair to find their own significant others and go on morning runs together, even if it was cold and miserable and slushy.

Up ahead, Tony saw another couple together, a little girl sitting in a baby stroller in front of the man. Another young couple, another young family. Tony caught a glimpse of the little girl’s fuzzy white cap, a pair of fuzzy white mittens before he was passing them, turning the corner, catching a red light. Farther ahead, Tony saw Steve, waving a hand to a person walking his dog.

The dog barked after Steve—not a malicious bark, of course, because Steve was the type of person who dogs stopped for and barked after. When they had been dating, Tony had to always stand off to the side and wait for Steve to finish petting whatever dog he had caught the attention of.

Pepper, thankfully, hadn’t been too much of a dog person herself, but she had been good at starting random conversations with other couples. She would swap tips for composting with new mothers and fathers who were trying to be as eco-friendly for their children as possible.

Steve and Pepper were both a lot better with the socializing stuff. Or, at least, they were a lot better with the polite kind of socializing. Tony was better with the other kind of socializing: the kind of socializing that usually went well with a beer or a glass of wine or whatever the occasion called for. Pepper and Steve’s kind of socializing were fine. Tony could muscle through it, but there always came a point when he’d need to excuse himself, but Steve and Pepper—they could go through all of the polite small talk without cracking.

 _God_ , Tony would have to do so much polite small talking at the weddings.

Tony quickened his step just a little more, ignoring his side’s protest at the sudden burst of speed. Steve was _very_ far ahead of him now, but at least they were finishing the routine. Tony could see their street again, make out their apartment building looming just a few kilometers away. Tony looked forward to having some feeling in his fingers again, along with a hot shower and the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to worry about Steve trying to get him to run for the rest of the day.

Tony pushed himself around the corner, and then he found Steve, standing in front of the apartment building across from their own. At first, Tony couldn’t tell why Steve had suddenly stopped. For all Tony knew, Steve might have run into another dog, or maybe he had decided to start a conversation with a mailman. Tony puffed out a breath and pushed himself forward. Fine. Steve could keep talking to whoever he was talking to, but Tony was going to take a shower and finish unpacking.

But Steve had Tony’s keys.

Wonderful.

Gritting his teeth, Tony slowed down into a halfhearted jog towards Steve.

“Caught up finally?” Tony heard Steve ask.

Tony lifted his head. “’scuse you,” he said, “I thought I did pretty well, actually.”

Steve laughed, and then Tony heard, “Peter, this is Tony. He just moved back in.”

_Peter?_

Tony lifted his head and found himself staring at an all-too familiar pale face. The first thing that struck Tony was how big the kid’s eyes were. Big, brown, set underneath a pair of furrowed eyebrows. His hair was lighter in person, too—lighter and curlier, too, hiding only a little under the hood of a grey sweater.

Tony’s lips twitched into a smile. _Huh_. So this was the kid.

The boy’s lips parted in surprise, and then he was looking down. His cheeks were a delicate pink color, though whether because of the cold or something else, Tony couldn’t tell. But the boy couldn’t even lift his eyes to look at Tony, and then Tony suddenly became aware that he wasn’t wearing anything except for that sweater.

“Nice to meet you,” Tony said at last. He stuck out a hand.

The boy looked at Tony’s hand, and then, flicking his eyes up to Tony, slowly took Tony’s hand. It was a quick brush of fingers, really, nothing more, but then the boy was quickly lowering his hand back down, stuffing it in the pocket of his sweater. _Twitchy_ , Tony thought, dropping his hand to his side.

“He only looks like a jerk,” Steve said at the silence now spreading between the three of them. He cast Tony a sidelong look. “But he’s nice once you get to know him.”

At that, Tony saw a little smile— _so he smiles_ —spread across Peter’s face, and the pink in the kid’s face deepened, and Tony almost wanted to laugh then, because _ah_ , he knew what was going on. Poor kid had a crush on Steve. Well.

Tony almost felt bad for the kid.

Clearing his throat, Tony said, “Speaking of being nice—I think we got off on the wrong foot.” He looked down at Peter, whose shoulders were starting to bunch up to his ears. Tony would have rolled his eyes if he could. “Relax, I’m not gonna shout at you or call the cops or whatever it is you’re thinking.” He waited until Peter’s shoulders lowered before adding, “Just figured we should clear the air of that.”

Peter paused, and then he nodded. It was a small movement at first, almost shy, and then he nodded again. And kept nodding, up down, up down, up down, like a bobble-head before Tony held up a hand. He wondered if poking a finger against Peter’s forehead would be a more effective way of getting the kid to stop, just like he were a real-life bobble-head.

But the hand was enough to stop Peter, and Tony managed a grim little smile. “Just one nod’s good enough.”

“Like I said,” Steve said, smiling at Peter, “he’s nice once you get to actually know him.”

Implying that Tony would actually be getting to _know_ the kid. Tony looked at Peter again, observing the otherwise pale face. The kid couldn’t have gotten that much sun, and Tony had the feeling that wasn’t just because of the past winter. The pale face, combined with Peter’s otherwise wiry frame told Tony that the kid couldn’t have gotten out much. A recluse, then.

Still, Steve was giving Tony another one of his slightly edged _play nice_ smiles, the kind that Steve only ever wore when he truly needed Tony to play nice.

“Just didn’t want him to break his neck,” Tony replied.

Steve sighed. Then, turning to Peter, he asked, “What’re you doing later?” He nodded over at Tony. “I promise this one will be in better moods after he takes a shower. Actually bearable to be around.” Steve paused, and then after a moment, added, “We’re going to have just a little gathering at Tony’s later tonight, and you’re more than welcome to join.”

 _A little gathering?_ This was the first time Tony had heard of this little gathering.

If Steve sensed Tony’s disbelief, he didn’t show it. “Third floor,” he said, “and we’ll put up a sign. We’ll probably start around six. Just a casual house-warming.”

Peter blinked. “I don’t…” He flicked his eyes once at the ground, then back up to Steve, then at Tony before back to the ground. “Um.”

“It’ll be fun,” Steve said gently. “But if you’re not up for it, that’s okay too.”

Peter looked up at Steve, his cheeks tinging on red now. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll think about it.” He shifted his weight to the opposite foot, and shoving his other hand into his sweater pocket, added, “I just…should probably get going now.” He ducked his head into an odd little goodbye nod. “Have a nice day,” he said, his voice oddly higher-pitched than a moment ago, and then Peter was turning around, his head ducked low and hands still jammed in the pockets.

When Peter had disappeared back into his apartment building, Tony asked, “What the _hell_ was that?”

“See?” Steve only said as though Tony hadn’t spoken. “Peter’s harmless.”

“Too harmless,” Tony snorted, following Steve back towards their apartment building. “The kid looked like I was going to hit him or something.”

“Well, you might as well have,” Steve said, opening the door. “ _Just one nod’s good enough_ —seriously?”

“It’s not normal to keep nodding like that,” Tony replied. “Listen, I’m just doing the kid a favor. He won’t survive out there if he keeps up those little quirks.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “He’s doing fine,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Tony deadpanned. “Which is why you just invited him to my place. Also, about that: you invited him to my place?”

Steve at least had the grace to look a little guilty. “Sorry,” he said, stepping into the elevator. “But like you said, you guys started off on the wrong foot. You two might run into each other more often, and he needs…” His voice drifted as the elevator doors closed. “Well, you saw him. He needs a friend.”

“Which you’ve been,” Tony said, turning towards the doors. He could imagine how the kid across the street could have fallen for Steve Rogers: Steve, with his Boy Scout smile and his endearing patience.

“I don’t know him that well,” Steve admitted. “But we see each other around. And he lives up in that apartment by himself. And he’s young.” He shrugged. “Just a lonely kid who doesn’t seem to have a whole ton of people.” He looked at Tony. “I’m not asking you to become best pals with Peter,” he said, “but at least be a good neighbor.” And there—there was the faintest note of disdain in Steve’s voice, the one that used to creep into their arguments before they both called quits.

The elevator doors dinged back open.

“Fine,” Tony said, following Steve out into the hallway. “Let’s have a get-together. Just two engaged couples, one bachelor, and one kid. Sounds like the beginning of a joke. And I’m still waiting for the punchline.”

“Joke all you want,” Steve said, reaching his own door. “But I’m telling you—Peter’s a good kid.” He opened his door, giving Tony another sidelong glance. “Give him a chance.”

“Then what about you?” Tony asked as he opened his own door. “How’d you meet him?”

Steve paused, frowning. Then, letting out a small laugh, he said, “Gave him a water bottle. He was wearing a sweater in seventy-five degree weather.”

“Well,” Tony muttered, turning back to his door, “I’ll make sure to stock up on water bottles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos are greatly appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jesus,” Tony said, kicking open the door a little wider. “How long were you standing there?”

Peter was glad to be excused back inside. He shut the door quickly behind himself, and only a few moments later did he realize that _oh_ , Steve had actually invited him to a—what, casual house-warming? Did people Peter’s age even go to house-warming parties? Peter wasn’t sure. He could call MJ and Ned to find out, but looking at his phone, Peter knew MJ was probably still working, and he knew that Ned’s boss was anal about picking up any personal calls during the work day.

But Steve had invited him.

Steve Rogers, with the gentle smile and the only lightest sheen of sweat and the criminally bluest eyes of the world, had been the one to ask Peter to come over. Well, come over to _Tony’s_.

Peter’s new neighbor _looked_ like a Tony. Mostly dark hair, mostly dark eyes, half-smirk constantly tugging at his lips. Peter could picture him wearing a leather jacket like in those 80s movies, the ones with the gelled-up, white-tooth, motorcycle-riding boys. Also coincidentally the ones who carried around baseball bats and dunked poor kids’ heads into toilets.

Peter cringed, pushing his hands up to his face. It wasn’t like Tony _had_ shoved his head in a toilet. If anything, Peter would have figured their encounter was probably just as awkward for Tony as it was for Peter—but no, Peter took that back, because he was sure that the encounter was ten times worse for himself than it had been for Tony.

 _Just one nod is good enough_ , Tony had said.

Peter cringed again. He removed his hands from his face and looked to the window, where the curtains were still drawn. His apartment was dim because of that now, and for a moment, Peter resented Tony for ever having seen him because now he would have to spend the rest of the day with his curtains pulled closed. It had been a somewhat bright day today, too.

Peter dropped his hands to his sides and pushed himself away from his door. _Fine_ , he thought. Fine. Everything was fine. This was fine. He just needed to get to work. Distract himself with whatever blueprints his boss decided to send him today. He could work with those for the rest of the day.

So Peter sat himself down on his desk. He opened up the assignments waiting for him. Nothing major waiting for him—there never _was_ anything major waiting for Peter, just little bits and pieces of things that the tech firm missed because of a lazy hand or sleepy eyes. Peter straightened up those little bits and pieces, though. Corrected the slips made by the lazy hands and sleepy eyes, and he got through the mistakes in fair time. He sent the blueprints back at a steady pace, and by the time he was done, Peter’s apartment had become a bit darker.

Not that Peter really minded. He turned on his desk lamp, refreshed his page a few times to check if there were any more assignments waiting for him. He got only one more email: a request from his boss to go through the latest inventory charts and give an update on what new materials the tech firm might need to order. Peter knew that his boss could have easily asked an intern to do something as mundane as look through inventory charts, but no matter, Peter clicked open the spreadsheets anyways, because he didn’t have anything else to do.

Peter stood up two times in the whole afternoon: once to use the bathroom and the other to just stretch his legs. He rotated his ankles around lightly, trying to get some feeling into them after having them still for so long. Peter paced his apartment a few times, which wasn’t difficult, because his apartment was so small to begin with.

There wasn’t much anyways. His bedroom had his bed, a small nightstand. A sliding-door closet. A few books that Peter had liked in college. The main part of his apartment was his work area, though. The desk with its stacks of papers and folders, the buckets of pencils and pens, and the sticky notes that decorated the wall. An empty can of coffee Peter had gotten from a vending machine on one of his ventures to the actual tech firm. And then there was the small kitchenette with all the kitchenette items that came along with such. Not much, but Peter hadn’t expected much. The apartment complex was quiet, and Peter’s apartment was quiet, and the people living in Peter’s hallway kept to themselves, and Peter kept to himself.

That was fine.

Peter sat back down at his desk. A new email waited for him—just a quick word of thanks from his boss, a wish for a good night, and that was when Peter knew that he was finished for the day. Peter leaned back against his chair and sighed, rubbing his eyes. By the time Peter had pulled his hands away from his face, his eyes throbbed a little at how dry they were. One bad thing about working from home all the time: staring at a laptop all day. Peter closed his eyes, set his head down against the desk. One time, his eyes had gotten so red and itchy that Peter couldn’t look at a screen for a day or two. Peter made mental note to get some eye drops the next time he went out.

But the thought of going out made Peter’s skin crawl. He curled his fingers inward, ignoring the light prick of his nails against skin. Maybe he could ask MJ or Ned to come with him. They wouldn’t mind, Peter knew. They might even be happy that he asked for their help. They might be _thrilled_.

They would be thrilled. MJ would probably try to act as natural as possible, and Ned would probably pretend to stuff as many things into Peter’s basket as he possibly could, like they did in high school. And then Peter would have no choice but to whack Ned away with whatever thing—a bag of frozen spinach, box of cereal, a bag of assorted apples—had magically appeared in his cart. That might even be a little fun.

If he ever got around to ever calling MJ and Ned, that was. He could. He could call them right now if he truly wanted to. But Peter kept his phone sitting at his desk, untouched, unused, undisturbed.

But almost as though sensing its own abandonment, the phone rang: sharp, clear, and unbearably loud that Peter nearly jumped. Still, he reached for his phone and, looking at the caller ID, let out a sigh of relief. He brought the phone to his ear and, trying to steady the quick thump-thump-thump of his heart, he said, “Hi May.”

“How’re you doing, kiddo?”

“Fine,” Peter said, leaning back in his seat. The chair creaked a little, and Peter quickly righted himself back up. “What’s up?”

“The ceiling,” May replied. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Peter smiled in spite of himself. “I’m fine,” he said, turning around in his seat. “Got some work done.” He paused only for a moment before adding, “MJ and Ned and I went out a few days ago.”

“Yeah?” May asked, and even though Peter knew his aunt was trying, he could still hear the lilt of excitement in her voice. “How did it go?”

“Fine,” Peter replied.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, tightening his grip on his phone. He dropped his gaze down to the floor. There was a hole in his sock. He picked at the hole as he added, “There was some noise. But it was mostly fine.” He squeezed at his phone again. “But I lasted longer than last time.”

“That’s great,” May said, and she sounded so sincere that Peter wasn’t sure whether to feel glad or not. Then, her voice softening, May added, “No, that’s _really_ great. And you’ll last longer the next time too.”

“Thanks,” Peter said quietly. He glanced at the clock. Already almost five. “I think my neighbor asked me to—well, he called it a _gathering_.”

“A _gathering_ ,” May repeated. “Sounds exciting. Was it your cute neighbor?”

Peter’s face warmed. “ _May_. He’s not _my_ anything.” After a moment of silence, he added dumbly, “And he has a boyfriend anyways. So it’s not really like I had a chance to begin with.”

“You’ll have plenty of chances,” May said lightly. “Even if it’s not with your cute neighbor. But either way, he invited you—that sounds fun. You’re going, aren’t you?”

Peter picked at his sock again. He picked apart a few lint balls and replied, “I don’t know. Maybe.” He cleared his throat. “It’s not even at his place. That apartment I thought he lived in was apparently his friend’s. He was just looking after it, I think.”

“Your neighbor invited you to a gathering at someone else’s apartment?” May aske, only now sending skeptical. “Did you meet this friend of his?”

“Kind of,” Peter replied, wincing at the memory of a certain smirk, curtains being drawn. Ducking below his window to avoid those sharp eyes. Peter decided not to recount that part for May. “We kind of got off on an awkward foot though.”

“So your cute neighbor wants you to get along with his friend,” May said. “That’s nice of him.”

Peter hadn’t thought of that before. “Yeah,” he said, scuffing his foot against the ground. “I guess.”

“So what time is this little innocent gathering?”

Peter glanced at the clock again, even though only a few minutes had passed. “In about an hour,” Peter replied. He cast another look back at his closed curtains and before he could stop himself, he drew back a corner of the heavy cloth. To his relief, there was no one waiting for him across the street. But the lights inside Steve’s—no, Tony’s—apartment were on, and before anyone could walk fully in view, Peter let his curtain drop back down. “I don’t know if I should go.”

“Well, you were invited,” May pointed out. “And who knows, this might be a good chance to bond with your neighbors. Have some community time.” She paused. “I _will_ say it’s kind of funny that you’re getting to know the people across your street better than the people on your own floor, but you were always an overachiever.”

Peter smiled weakly. “I didn’t do anything,” he said. “Steve’s just nice.”

“Clearly,” May replied. Then, after a beat, she asked, “Are you holding up there okay though? Got enough food? Are you sleeping? I hope you’re actually sleeping in your bed this time—”

“Don’t worry,” Peter said hastily. “I’m not…things are fine here. Quiet.” He waited for a heartbeat before adding, “In a good way.”

“You’re sure? You know you could still move back in if you want to.”

Peter closed his eyes. Squeezed his phone again. He could picture May standing in their apartment right now, back in their cozy little kitchen with a mug of tea in her hands. He suddenly wanted to go back to that little kitchen, back to the apartment that had been his home since middle school until college, and then until—

“I’m okay,” Peter said roughly. He cleared his throat and, blinking the warmth out of his eyes, he repeated, “I’m okay. This is good, right?” He leaned back against his desk, ignoring the little creak of protest from underneath him.

“Of course,” May said, her voice so soft that Peter might have missed it if he hadn’t had his phone so close to his ear. And then, louder, May repeated, “Of course. But if you ever change your mind, you know you always have a home here, right?”

Peter nodded. Remembering that May couldn’t see him, he said, “Yeah.” He smiled then, a quick smile that he was used to giving May, and he wondered if May could hear that quick smile in his voice as he added, “I’ll call you later.”

“After your little _gathering_ ,” May said. “I want to hear all about it, understand?”

Peter smiled again, though this smile felt more natural than the last one. “Yes, ma’am.”

At least some things never changed.

\--

Peter almost walked back to his apartment three times before finally reaching Tony’s apartment. The first time was genuinely an accident: Peter had to go back to get a warmer jacket. The second time, Peter made it up to Tony’s door—room 306 with a sign as Steve had promised—before turning back around. He walked down one flight of stairs before gritting his teeth and walking back up to the door. And then, his knuckles freezing over Tony’s door, Peter turned back around and walked down two flights of stairs before stopping on the last landing and thinking of Steve’s gentle smile and May’s hopeful voice, and then he went right back up the stairs.

So now Peter stood right in front of Tony’s door once more, trying to steady his breaths after clambering up and down the stairs multiple times. He hoped his face wasn’t as pink as it was warm. He hoped he wasn’t underdressed. He hoped he didn’t smell bad. He hoped and hoped and hoped, and then the door opened.

Peter wasn’t sure who reacted first: Tony or himself, but they both jumped—Peter, back into the hallway, Tony back into his apartment.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Tony said, kicking open the door a little wider. “How long were you standing there?”

Peter took a few seconds to find his voice. Clearing his throat, he said, “Not that long.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Sorry.”

Tony only shook his head. “Jesus,” he said again. Then, lifting his eyes back up to Peter, he jerked his head into the apartment. “Come in.” He started to turn back around for the apartment, but then, as though remembering something, he turned back around to Peter. He extended a hand. “Jacket?”

Peter hesitated, and then Tony smiled grimly. “What, you got the crown jewels in there?”

“No,” Peter replied, and he shrugged off his jacket. “Thanks.”

Tony only lifted his shoulders. “Come in,” he repeated, and Peter followed Tony into the apartment. And walking into the apartment felt strange—there had been months when Peter had just looked into the apartment and just _seen_ the couch, the coffee table, the television, the kitchen table and island. Now he was actually walking into the room, his socked feet actually making its way across the hardwood floors.

There were already people in the main living space of the apartment: Steve, Peter recognized right away, but there were the two women who Peter had seen just the other night. Only they looked much more casual and comfortable now than they did since the last time. Light makeup, sweaters, jeans. Laughing into bottles of beer and exchanging jokes with the man with the ponytail and Steve.

Steve was the first to look up from the little group. “Peter,” he said, smiling. He lifted his beer bottle. “You made it!”

“Yeah,” Peter managed to say, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Of course,” Steve said. He gestured at the people around him. “Guys, this is Peter.”

There was a chorus of “hello”s, and Peter only managed a weak wave—a _wave?_ —before dropping his hand back awkwardly at his side. “I’m from across the street,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

“ _Directly_ across,” Tony drawled, coming up beside Peter. He passed Peter a green bottle of beer. “We’re going to be great neighbors.”

Peter’s face flushed, and a corner of Tony’s lips twitched again.

“Don’t tease him,” the woman with the red hair said. She had wrapped an arm around the tall blonde, and taking a sip from her own beer, she added with a wink at Peter, “Tony has no other personality except for sarcasm. Trust me, you only ever need him in small doses.” At that, everyone laughed, and Peter managed a weak laugh of his own too, because that was just what everyone else was doing.

“You’re all hilarious,” Tony said, leaning against the kitchen island. “Truly. Comedy gold right here.” He cast a glance at Peter and looked down at the unopened beer still sitting in Peter’s hands. “Don’t drink?” he asked.

Peter looked down at the beer bottle. “Not really,” he said. “Sorry.” He set the beer bottle on the kitchen island behind themselves, and he half-expected Tony to smirk again, and Peter’s face started to warm again at the mere idea, but Tony only shrugged.

“What do you want then?” Tony asked, pushing the beer bottle aside. “Water? Soda?”

“Water’s fine,” Peter said, twisting his hands deeper into his pockets. Tony only nodded, and a minute later, he was passing Peter a glass. “Thanks.”

“Welcome,” Tony said, turning back around to the little group in the main living area. They were still all chatting, every once in a while letting a laugh fill the whole room. Peter noticed that the man with the ponytail kept sneaking side kisses at Steve’s neck, and even though Peter knew it wasn’t like he ever had a chance with Steve Rogers anyways, he still found himself wincing a little every single time.

“I know, they’re a riot.”

Peter blinked. He turned to Tony, who was watching the group too with an expression that Peter couldn’t quite read.

“They’re couples, you know. Obviously.” Tony took a swig of his beer. “Engaged.”

Peter’s heart plunged. “Engaged?” he repeated, turning back around to Steve and the man with the ponytail. The two women. “Oh.” He cleared his throat and looking back down at his water, he added, “I didn’t know that. Not that I should. I don’t even know Steve that well. I mean, we’ve just talked a few times—” He looked up at Tony, stopped short at the lopsided grin Tony was giving him.

“Don’t need to explain yourself to me, kid,” Tony said. He nodded over to Peter. “They’re happy, though.” He looked over at Peter. “You got a girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

Peter’s face warmed again. He took a quick sip of his water, drank too fast. He just barely swallowed around a cough as he lifted his head from the glass again. “No,” he managed to say, hoping that his voice didn’t sound as tight as he felt.

“Bachelor life, then,” Tony said. “Nothing wrong with that.” He lifted his bottle and only a few seconds later did Peter realize that Tony was waiting for him. When Peter finally clinked his water glass against Tony’s bottle, Tony turned back to the crowd. “Your turn will come eventually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscribes are always greatly appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not exactly how you were picturing the night?” Tony finally asked, passing some more aluminum foil to Peter.

Tony made sure he only topped off after two beers. Mostly because his head still hurt a little more from last night than he was willing to admit, and also because, well, he couldn’t drink in good conscious with wide-eyed Peter Parker around. But speaking of, the kid had finally managed to sit down on the couch, and he was nodding animatedly at something Pepper was telling him. Tony caught something about composting, and the kid was actually acting like he was interested in whatever there was about composting. Which was fine, Tony supposed.

Tony did some quick poking around on his phone about Peter Parker himself. Maybe a little strange, fine, but Tony justified it with the fact that _well_ , if the two were about to be neighbors, he might as well just make sure that this Peter Parker had a mostly clean record. Nothing too crazy, hopefully—not that Tony expected anything too crazy, judging by the shy smile Peter was giving Pepper now.

Tony crashed down against one of the armchairs of the living room—the one across from Peter and Pepper, so they couldn’t see what he was doing—and pulled up Peter’s profile on Facebook. Born and raised in Queens, an alum of Midtown School of Science and Technology and MIT. _Huh._ Tony shot another glance at Peter. Funny to think that they had gone to the same school, even if Peter had gone years and years after Tony.

Tony scrolled down and frowned at the tagged pictures of Peter Parker. Tony had to look up at the person sitting across from him, look down at the screen in front of him again.

The Peter Parker of the Facebook photos was obviously younger, maybe with a little more baby fat in the cheeks, but that wasn’t the only difference. Brighter smile. Brighter eyes. He held up a trophy to some science competition in one of the photos, carried by his teammates. That was back in high school. And then there were other photos: Peter in a graduation cap and gown, Peter flashing a peace sign by the Charles River. The college photos were more or less the same, maybe only with shenanigans that Tony himself remembered from his own MIT days. Peter with a shaving-cream slathered face, laughing and trying to block himself away from the camera. Peter proudly pointing to a huge stack of pancakes. Peter and what appeared to be a few friends racing through Boston Commons.

 _Huh_. The photos stopped up to what Tony calculated would be Peter’s senior year of college. Again, _huh_. Tony remembered his own senior year of one peaking with the typical chaos of parties and stress-thesis writing and spontaneous road trips. The fact that someone as clearly documented as Peter Parker would have no photos memorializing that time was—well.

Tony looked back up at Peter. He was turning the now-empty glass of water over and over in his hands, still nodding at whatever Pepper was talking about now. Quiet kid. Tony looked back down at the photo of a laughing Peter running through Boston Commons. The images didn’t seem to match.

Tony stuffed his phone in his back pocket. So maybe the kid just learned how to be more private about his photos. Or maybe something happened. Not that it mattered. Tony wasn’t about to ask, certainly not now or here or _ever_ because Peter Parker was just the person who happened to live across his apartment.

So that was fine. Everything would be fine. Peter only lived across the street.

Tony stood up and walked towards the kitchen to get a glass of water. By the time he came back out, Peter was shaking Bucky’s hand. Tony couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him as Peter’s eyes flicked from Bucky to Steve. And then Peter was smiling, and then saying some congratulatory remark, and Tony felt even worse for Peter because _ah_ , of course the kid would be the type to just grin and bear the whole spectacle.

Or maybe grinning and bearing through the whole spectacle came easier to Peter than Tony was giving the kid credit for. After all, Peter had said that he didn’t know Steve well, and judging from what Steve had told Tony so far, Steve didn’t know Peter all that well either. As far as Steve knew, Tony was sure, Peter Parker was just the shy recluse who happened to live in the same neighborhood. 

“How’re you holding up?”

Tony turned to Natasha. She was tying her hair up in a ponytail—her hair had just barely gotten long enough to do that now.

“Only have a minor headache now,” Tony replied, holding up the glass of water.

“Great,” Natasha said, coming up to Tony’s side. She swiped the glass out of Tony’s hand and taking a quick sip herself, she added, “How’re you holding up otherwise? Are things getting weird for you?”

Tony snorted. “They’ve been weird for me since day one.”

“Great,” Natasha repeated. “I’d be weirded out if things weren’t weird for you.” She turned around completely to Tony, her eyes darting over his face in the way that made Tony always feel like he was being scanned by a lie detector. Actually, if Tony’s whole personality was made up of sarcasm, then Natasha’s whole personality was probably made up of whatever was put in lie detecting machines. Maybe Bucky would make a terrible secret agent, but Tony could easily picture Natasha as one.

“What’re you doing, Romanoff?” Tony grumbled, swiping his water back. “Isn’t it a little too early to start psychoanalyzing me?”

Natasha grinned. “Never too early,” she replied loftily. Resting her elbows on the kitchen island, she nodded her head over to where Steve and Bucky were still talking to Peter. “Ready for their wedding?”

“’Course I am,” Tony replied. “I’m more worried about _your_ wedding. Seriously, _flower crowns_?”

“Pepper’s idea,” Natasha said, and though her voice was light, Tony knew—again—from those eyes that she was being careful. Which Tony hated. And Tony knew that Natasha knew that he hated that. “But they’re cute. And we won’t make you wear it if you don’t want to.”

“Lucky me,” Tony said.

“Seriously,” Natasha said, casting Tony a sidelong glance. “I _know_ this is weird for you. And faking being happy only lasts for so long with you.”

“I made a miscalculation,” Tony said, narrowing his eyes at his water glass. “It is _way_ too early for you to start psychoanalyzing me.” He looked up at Natasha. “I’m fine.” He set his glass down on the island. “Look at me—totally, completely fine. Can’t wait for Steve’s wedding, can’t wait for your wedding, flower crowns and all. Hell, give me all the weddings.” Fine. Tony was going too fast. Time to start backpedaling. “Point is, I’m fine. There.”

Natasha pressed her lips together. “Tony—”

Tony’s phone buzzed. _Thank God_. “Hold on,” Tony said, tugging out his phone. “That’s delivery. Psychoanalyze someone else.” Before Natasha could say anything, Tony ducked out of the apartment, not even bothering to tug on his jacket. If anything, the cold was a welcome, refreshing distraction.

After Tony paid, he made sure to take the stairs. He didn’t care if the pizza boxes were heavy and burning right through his forearms. He would rather walk up the stairs and take his time than go straightaway back into the hell-scape of the gathering or house-warming or whatever Steve had called the evening.

But Tony eventually reached his apartment, only when he reached the door, he found that a certain wide-eyed guest was already standing near the entrance, rifling through the closet.

“Looking for something?” Tony asked, kicking the door closed by himself.

Peter turned around quickly. “Jacket,” he said. “I should get going.”

Tony blinked. “Get going?” he repeated. He lifted the pizza boxes. “Dinner just came.”

Peter’s eyes flicked down at the pizza boxes, then back up at Tony’s face. “I’m good,” he said, one hand still rooting around the number of jackets and coats hanging in the closet. “Really.” He started to turn back around to the closet, and Tony, lifting his eyes up to the ceiling, counted quietly to ten before walking towards the kitchen island. He set the burning boxes on the surface and called out, “Dinner’s served.” He didn’t bother waiting for his friends as he walked back to the entrance, where Peter was still looking for his jacket.

Tony found Peter’s jacket—an army-green colored thing—and tugged it out of the closet.

“Thanks,” Peter said, moving forward for the jacket, but Tony quickly tugged it behind himself. Peter’s face fell. “What are you—”

“Listen,” Tony said, “I’d be a bad host if I let you leave without dinner.” He tossed the jacket back at Peter, who caught it (thankfully). “And besides,” he said, nodding back out to the kitchen, “you and I are the only bachelors here, remember?” He met Peter’s wide eyes and, lifting his shoulders, he repeated, “I’d be a bad host if I let you leave without dinner.” And, if Tony was being honest—which he almost never was—he wasn’t quite sure how he was going to sit through this dinner by himself.

Maybe that was selfish of him. Maybe Tony felt bad for Peter. Whichever the reason, whatever the reason, Tony waited patiently for Peter to make a decision.

Finally, bunching the jacket up in his arms, Peter nodded once.

“Great,” Tony said. He gestured towards the kitchen. “After you.”

So they walked into the kitchen area together. Tony handed Peter a plate, and then they were sitting in the living room despite the fact that there were still enough chairs around the table and the kitchen island. Tony didn’t entirely mind, though, because at least they weren’t all staring directly at each other.

“So,” Pepper said when Tony and Peter sat down on the carpet, “when did you move in here, Peter?”

“A few months ago,” Peter replied. He pressed his lips into a quick smile. “I haven’t been here all that long.”

“And how’s your stay been so far? This neighborhood’s pretty quiet,” Pepper commented.

“I don’t mind,” Peter replied, looking down at his pizza. “The quiet’s okay.” He picked at a corner of his pizza. Lifting his head at the group around them, he asked, “Do you guys live around here too?”

“Just Steve and Bucky,” Natasha said, taking a bite out of her pizza. “Pepper and I live a little ways from here.”

“You can say Park Avenue, you know,” Tony said.

At Pepper’s little groan of protest, Natasha shrugged. “Like I said,” she said, “a little ways from here.” She took another bite of pizza. “And not for long,” she added. “We might be moving out soon.”

“Really?” Steve asked suddenly. “Where?”

Natasha shrugged. “Here, there,” she replied in her typical wry fashion. “We’re searching.”

“Funny,” Bucky said. “Steve and I have been doing some house-digging ourselves.”

This was the first of either that Tony had heard either Bucky or Natasha speak of any moving. Tony tried to catch Natasha’s eyes, but she wasn’t looking at him. “Really,” she was saying instead. “And where are _you_ guys looking? Or is that top-secret information?”

“Funny,” Bucky repeated, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. He nodded at Steve. “Why don’t you give the explanation?”

At this, Tony noticed Peter’s head poking up from his plate too. Of course. Tony kept his expression as neutral as possible as Steve said, “I’ve been offered some teaching positions in some schools upstate. Some in Massachusetts. Some in California too, actually.”

“California,” Pepper said, smiling. “Looks like everyone’s heading to California these days.” She looked over at Natasha, who only winked back.

Tony only watched the scene unfold before him, and he took another bite out of his pizza. “Huh,” was all he could say, and then it was as though he had been noticed for the first time—that was how quickly everyone’s heads turned to him. Including Peter’s. But Tony kept chewing on his pizza, tried to keep his voice light as he said, “I’ll just have missed you guys.”

At that, the room fell into silence.

“Don’t be like that,” Tony said, picking up his pizza. “Don’t make this awkward.” He lifted his shoulders. “Great,” he said. “That’s really great for all of you guys. California. Great.” He let out a laugh, one that sounded terrible and forced and awkward even to his own ears. “Really big moves, huh?” He nodded at Steve. “Which schools? UC Berkeley? San Diego?”

“UCLA, actually,” Steve replied, and though his voice was light too, Tony noticed the slightest of wrinkles in between his brows, and Tony hated him for that. Clearing his throat, Steve added, “Of course, Bucky and I still have some decisions to make—”

“So do we,” Pepper said quickly, shooting Tony a look that only too closely mirrored Steve’s. “Nat and I are still looking at other places that aren’t as far away—”

“No, no,” Tony said, waving his hand. That movement felt awkward and clumsy, and Tony dropped his hand back down on his lap. “That’s great for you guys. You guys will love California. All sunny beaches. None of this crappy East Coast weather.” He took another bite of his pizza, although it seemed to stick in his throat. He swallowed quickly. “Anyways,” he said lightly, “that’s great. Really. Planning to move out right after the wedding?”

Steve cleared his throat again. “We might be moving some of the stuff a little before then,” he said quietly. “Just bits at a time.”

“So you two _have_ already made the decision,” Tony said, and he hated himself for sounding so triumphant—what was there to be triumphant about?

Steve looked pained. “Tony—”

“No, that’s great,” Tony repeated. “Hip-hip-hooray for decision-making.” He was too aware of everyone’s eyes on him now, including Peter’s. Wonderful. Setting his plate down on the ground, Tony stood up and pretended to stretch. “Bathroom break,” he said to no one in particular. “More pizza’s in the…” He gestured vaguely at the kitchen area and ducked into the bathroom.

He caught a quick glimpse of himself in the mirror: tired eyes, eyebrows drawn too tight together, set jaw. Tony washed his hands longer than he should have.

By the time Tony came back out, the dull murmur of conversation had started back up again. Tony bussed his plate back to the sink just for something to do. “Anyone want more pizza?” he asked, and when met with non-committed mumbling, Tony proceeded to close those boxes too. He hated how much stuffier the atmosphere felt in his apartment then, and then he saw someone moving out of the corner of his eye.

Peter moved past Tony and quietly set his plate in the sink. “Where’s the soap?” he asked, not quite looking at Tony.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony said, waving his hand. “Guests don’t wash dishes.”

Peter lifted his shoulders. “Then do you want me to help out with the leftovers?” he asked, flicking his eyes up to Tony, and Tony found (unsurprisingly) the same kind of discomfort in Peter that Tony himself felt. For a moment, Tony almost felt bad for Peter—he probably didn’t want to be looped into this mess any more than Tony did.

“Aluminum foil in the cupboard,” Tony said, jerking his head to the side. “We don’t need a whole lot.”

Peter nodded and reached up for the cupboard. He returned a second later with a decent sheet of aluminum, and the two of them silently got to work on wrapping up the leftover slices. Peter worked quickly, and the only sounds for a while was the slight tear of aluminum foil amid the quieting murmurs from the main living area. Tony caught Peter looking over there a few times, each time becoming more and more fleeting than the last, and again, Tony couldn’t help but feel bad for the kid.

“Not exactly how you were picturing the night?” Tony finally asked, passing some more aluminum foil to Peter.

Peter took the foil. “Wasn’t exactly picturing anything,” he said, wrapping up the last slice of pizza. “This was okay.” He looked over at Tony, his brows furrowed together. _Oh, great. Now_ Peter _felt bad for him_. “Was this what you were picturing? Tonight?”

“ _That’s_ a question,” Tony said, stacking the aluminum-wrapped pizza slices on top of each other. “Ziplocs should be in the bottom cabinet.”

Peter ducked down and after taking the plastic bag, Tony added, “I’m not surprised at all.”

\--

“So you guys are planning to move out soon?” Tony heard Peter ask from near the door. He heard the shuffling of jackets being passed out, shoes being put back on, Bucky’s light laughter from something that someone else had said. And then Steve’s clear voice above it all:

“About a week from now,” Steve said. “After the wedding.”

Tony couldn’t help himself. He looked up to see Peter smiling at Steve: a small, gentle smile that perfectly suited the face of someone like Peter Parker’s. “Congratulations again,” he said now, shifting his hands back into his pockets. “And um, good luck with the move and everything.”

Steve smiled back. “Thanks,” he said. Swinging his jacket around his shoulders, Steve added, “Take care of yourself, Pete. I’ll send you a postcard.”

And Peter’s small face brightened a little at that, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that Tony felt bad for the kid, he would have actually rolled his eyes. But instead, he pushed himself away from the kitchen and managed a brief wave at Steve and Bucky. “See you all in a week,” Tony said, letting his hand drop back at his side.

“Or sooner than that,” Steve said lightly, turning from the door. “Don’t think we’re not going to ask you for last-second wedding rehearsals.”

“How could I forget,” Tony said, and Steve gave him the briefest of smiles, and then Steve and Bucky were both leaving.

Tony noticed Peter watching them leave too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos are greatly appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Only because you looked like you needed help,” Peter replied, and after a beat, he added quickly, “Not that you need help or that you need my help, but just that I just—”

“So how long have you been making eyes at him?”

Peter jumped. He spun around to find Tony leaning against the kitchen island, twisting a half-empty water glass in his hand. “Not that I blame you,” Tony said, looking up at Peter. He set the water glass down near the sink, turned on the tap. “He’s a nice guy. Also attractive,” he added, his voice just barely louder than the faucet. He paused. “Got the whole golden boy-slash-gentle giant thing going for him. Easy to see the appeal.”

Peter’s heart sank. “What are you—”

“Don’t worry,” Tony said, running the water glass under the faucet. He gave it a few scrubs and then, tossing another look at Peter, he added, “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I don’t—”

Tony cast Peter a sidelong smile. “Please,” he said almost wearily. “I’ve been around enough to know the kind of effect Steve Rogers has on people. Pepper Potts, too. Then again,” he said, turning fully around to Peter, “I guess that would only make sense, since they’re both my ex’s and all.”

Out of everything Tony could have said, Peter hadn’t expected _that_. His stomach twisted. This was fine. This was completely fine. “Your _ex’s_?” he asked at last because _oh_ , of _course_ Steve could have been dating someone like Tony in the past. The affectionate looks Steve had given Tony just earlier today, the familiarity the two seemed to have with each other—and the awkwardness of just a few minutes ago. Idiot. Peter had been a total idiot. “Your ex’s,” Peter repeated dumbly. “Wait, so both of them?”

He thought of the funny look Tony had worn when Peter came into the apartment, how he had handed Peter a glass of water and mentioned something about bachelor life. Peter felt a bit bad for Tony then, because _oh_ , Pepper and Steve were _both_ engaged. At the same time. About to move out of the state—all at the same time. That had to sting.

“Don’t worry,” Tony said, picking at something on the kitchen island. “I won’t burst into a soliloquy. Not my style.” He nodded at the door, an odd little smile tugging at his lips. Peter was starting to notice that Tony did that a lot—smiling at particularly nothing worth smiling about. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. “They’re both good people. Great people. Good for the people who they’re getting married to. You’ve met Bucky and Nat—they’re great, aren’t they?” He lifted his shoulders. “Gotta say, though—first loves, dead and gone and all that.” He let out a short laugh. “Happy for them, of course. We didn’t work out. Either time. Just unlucky. I might be a crappy boyfriend, husband, whatever, but we’re good friends. Which is better than what most people can say, right?” And then, faster than Peter could react, Tony asked, “So what about you, Romeo? You’re single, I know—but did you have anyone? Anything clicking here? Resonating?”

“Boyfriend,” Peter said, and he didn’t know why he said that, but the word slipped out before he could stop it. He swallowed, found a few lint balls in his pockets. “We broke up,” he lied. “Not pretty.” That wasn’t a lie.

Tony grimaced. “Rarely are,” he said. Then, drumming his fingers against the island, he added, “Well—everyone’s better for it, right?” Without waiting for a response, he picked up the Ziploc bags of leftover pizza and passed them across the island towards Peter. “People your age need more food, I’ve heard. I know.”

Peter looked down at the Ziploc bags. “I don’t…”

“Come on,” Tony said, giving the Ziploc bags another nudge. “You packed up most of these anyways.”

“Only because you looked like you needed help,” Peter replied, and after a beat, he added quickly, “Not that you _need_ help or that you need _my_ help, but just that I just—” He stopped short, his face getting warmer and warmer as Tony just stared at him, a corner of his lips slowly lifting into another one of his lopsided smiles. “I don’t like packing by myself is all,” Peter finished at last, looking down at the counter. “It’s a pain.”

“Well,” Tony said, “I appreciate you pitching in on the chores. _But_.” He tapped the Ziploc bags. “You’re still taking these. I’ve made up my mind. And once I make up my mind, there’s no going back. That’s something Steve and Pepper probably failed to mention to you while they were chatting you up.” Walking around the island, Tony picked up the Ziploc bags and passed them to Peter before he could say anything else. “There you go.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” Tony replied. “But I am because you helped me out with chores. Also,” he added, dropping his hands to his sides, “believe it or not, sarcasm isn’t my only personality trait.”

Peter looked up at Tony. He was still giving Peter that usual lopsided smile of his, but he looked more tired than he had been just a few minutes ago. As though all the strength and energy had just seeped right from under him, and Peter wondered if he hadn’t been the only one agonizing over what would happen tonight. But now Peter cleared his throat and managed to say, “I might believe that.” His voice came out quieter than he intended it to, but Tony still caught it.

“Well,” Tony said, clearing his throat. He moved past Peter. “You’ll probably want your jacket back, right?”

“Yes please,” Peter said, trailing after Tony.

“Well, if it’s a _please_ ,” Tony said, handing Peter his jacket. Peter took it and, after slipping it on, he looked up at Tony again. Under the light of by the door, Peter was struck that his hair looked just a little lighter. Peter could more clearly make out the light browns amongst the otherwise dark. Some more grey hairs. And Tony’s eyes looked a little lighter, too.

“Well,” Peter said at last, “have a nice night.”

“You too, kid.” Tony opened the door. “Can I trust you to walk back to your place without getting your lunch money stolen?” That was supposed to be a joke. Tony was joking with him. This was where Peter was supposed to smile and laugh.

“Ha,” Peter managed. He pronounced the sound as though it were an actual word itself, but if Tony thought that was awkward, he didn’t say anything. “I think I’ll be okay.”

“Great,” Tony said. He shifted aside for Peter to walk through the door. Peter only had walked down a little bit of the hallway before he snuck a glance behind himself. Tony was still in the doorway, but he was turned away from Peter. One arm resting against the doorframe, the other dangling at his side. He looked lonely.

Peter turned back around and darted down the stairs before Tony could catch him staring. Because out of everything that Tony Stark seemed to be—sarcastic, forceful, a little bit rude— _lonely_ didn’t seem like the kind of word that Peter’s neighbor wanted to be described as. Then again, Peter didn’t know _anyone_ who preferred to be called lonely.

Peter left the building and didn’t slow his pace until he had reached his own floor. One hand still clinging to the Ziploc bag, Peter fumbled for his key for a few seconds before opening his door. Nothing but the faintest humming of his refrigerator greeted Peter.

He flicked on the lights, blinking a few times to get adjusted to the sudden bright fluorescents. He kicked off his sneakers, hung his jacket on the hook May had helped him set up, and dropped the Ziploc bag on the small table that served as his dining area. He would put the leftovers in the freezer later, but right now, all Peter wanted was a shower.

He shucked off his clothes and turned on the tap, hopping from foot to foot as the cold water slowly made its way to eventual warmth. And when the water was finally warm enough, Peter stayed for a few seconds underneath the running water, feeling something other than just the effects of the ice water thaw from inside him. Back in his apartment. He was back in his apartment.

 _It wasn’t that bad_ , Peter thought as he washed his hair. No loud noises. No outrageously loud noises, anyways. Laughter. Friendly laughter, not sarcastic laughter. The kind of laughter that was mostly genuine. Warm lights. Mostly light conversation. Peter hadn’t known how to respond to topics involving composting, but Pepper had seemed nice. And so had Natasha. They were all nice. Peter felt like a freshman in college again, being invited to a party thrown by the cool seniors. (Only in college, Peter had mostly just stayed off to the side and laughed with MJ and Ned at one of their classmates’ attempt to flirt with one of the said seniors.)

But there had also been that one moment too: Steve and Pepper mostly exchanging awkward looks as they spoke of Massachusetts, California.

 _California_. That was on the other side of the country. Peter’s stomach sank pitifully at the idea of no longer seeing Steve running down the street. He would fit in California. Golden hair, blue eyes, old Hollywood kind of smile. Actually, Steve’s boyfriend—no, _fiancé_ , Peter corrected—had the same old Hollywood look too: the slightly rugged smile, the jawline. They fit together. They were a matching set.

Which was good for them. Honestly. They seemed happy.

By the time Peter stepped out of the shower, his fingers had gone wrinkly and prune-like. He toweled himself off, slipped into some more comfortable clothes, and was tossing his clothes into the laundry hamper when he caught sight of the light still on the apartment across the street.

Peter paused. His curtains were already open. He would just have to close them for the night. He headed over to his window and already reaching out for the curtain, his fingers only just barely brushed against the fabric before he found Tony moving around the apartment across from him.

Tony was pacing around the living room, one hand wrapped around a water bottle, the other running through his hair in short, aggravated sweeps. Peter watched as he circled the room once, twice, and then he sank down into the couch, water bottle still unopened in his hand.

He looked lonely.

“ _No_ ,” Peter hissed to himself, yanking the curtains closed. He forced himself away from the window and sat down at his desk. He needed to stop looking at that apartment. Even _if_ that apartment was directly across from Peter’s, and even _if_ seeing Tony Stark walk around his apartment was ridiculously easy because of how close the buildings were and how clean the windows were. Honestly, Peter could probably find his own reflection in those windows if he truly wanted to.

Which he didn’t want to.

But still, Peter found himself looking over his shoulder again at the drawn curtains. He saw Tony sitting on the couch again, unopened water bottle still in hand, his head probably tilted back at the ceiling as he would undoubtedly run through the events of the night.

And as for Peter—he picked at a corner at his desk. He wouldn’t be seeing Steve Rogers anymore, that was for certain. A week would pass, Peter knew, and Steve and his fiancé would rocket off to their new life in California. Good for them. Despite himself, Peter couldn’t help but smile a little. Steve and Bucky would probably fit right into the Hollywood lights and the sunshine and the waves.

Peter stood up. He checked his phone one last time: a single text message from May, asking _how was it????_ Not one, not two, not three, but _four_ question marks.

Peter tapped out a quick reply: _fine. my neighbor made me take the leftover pizza._

May’s response was instant: _that’s nice of him. are we still talking about your cute neighbor?_

 _He’s not_ my _anything_ , Peter thought automatically, but he wrote back: _no, it wasn’t steve. it was his friend. the one who actually owns the apartment??_

 _that’s still nice,_ came May’s response. A few seconds passed, and then another message popped up on the screen: _are you up for a call, or do you want to talk later?_

The time on Peter’s phone already read that the night was nearing midnight. He had spent nights staying up past this time, of course, but still, he knew that May probably needed her sleep too. _we can talk tomorrow_ , he texted back. _i’m kind of tired_. That was mostly true. Mostly not a lie.

 _okay_ , May replied. _Love you! Proud of you!!!!!!_

 _Lots_ of exclamation points. Peter managed to tap back an emoji before setting his phone down. He glanced back at the windows and wondered if Tony would be going to sleep by now. Probably not, but Peter wasn’t going to check. He pushed himself away from his desk and, leaving his phone at his desk, made his way into the little bedroom at the back of the apartment.

Peter slumped down into the mattress and, not even bothering with the covers, fell fast asleep.

\--

So the week passed, just as the week always passed. Peter talked to May the morning after the supposed gathering as he promised he would. “He’s engaged,” Peter told May. “It was kind of weird. Everyone was engaged, basically. Except for Tony.”

“Two bachelors,” May had agreed. “Kind of awkward. But was he nice? This Tony?”

“Kind of? I don’t know,” Peter had replied. He had started to glance out his window, but he quickly turned away before he could focus on anything beyond the glass.

“You don’t know if he’s being nice?” May repeated.

“No,” Peter replied. “He’s just kind of…a lot. He gave me the pizza though, which was nice, I guess.”

“True,” May said. “That _was_ really nice. Who knows, maybe you’ll make a new friend.”

“I already have friends,” Peter replied.

“I know you do,” came May’s gentle response, and they had changed the subject to something else. May’s newfound love of growing houseplants. The warming weather. Peter’s latest humorous and slightly tiring exchanges with his boss, who remained as enthusiastic as ever over email. And talking about those things felt mostly nice. Mostly normal. But May had to go at some point, and Peter had to go back to work, which is what they both did.

Life went on as normal.

\--

On Friday morning, Peter woke up to hear the distant crash and thud of cardboard boxes hitting pavement. He startled awake, sitting up fast and blankets pooling around his waist. His breath hitched in his chest at the sudden _thud_ again, and only when Peter made his way to the window did he realize that it was just Steve and Bucky heaving things out to a moving truck. Peter watched Steve shove something into the back of the truck, only to emerge and catch Bucky by the lips before fully hopping out.

Bucky pulled away, laughing, and even though Peter couldn’t hear what they were saying now, he could catch the drift between their movements: _get the other boxes_ , _wait until we’re done_ in the fond exasperation that came only with happy domestic life.

Something panged at Peter’s chest at the tender smile Steve gave. Peter would miss that, even if that smile hadn’t been directed at him.

Well.

When the moving truck finally pulled out of the street, Peter lifted his hand in the smallest of waves. _Goodbye, Steve Rogers_ , he thought. _Nice knowing you_.

\--

It was warmer out when Peter took out the trash. Almost no slush existed on the ground now, and the sun shone defiantly down in a cloudless sky. Still, Peter tightened his jacket around himself as he started to move back towards his apartment building. He only just took a few steps forward when the corner of an envelope jutting out from his mailbox caught his eye. Peter frowned. MJ and Ned weren’t the type to send anything over mail, and his birthday wasn’t for a few months. Maybe May, but Peter couldn’t imagine she’d need to send a letter when they were calling every other day.

Junk mail then, he figured. A pamphlet or flyer. Peter would have just let the envelope sit there if it hadn’t been for the fact that he hadn’t cleaned out his mailbox in a few days.

So Peter slipped in his key, and after a few jiggling twists and turns—he could never open his mailbox properly, and he was too embarrassed to ask the landlord for the proper way to do it—the envelope fell in Peter’s hands. There were a few other things in his mailbox, too: flyers and pamphlets for organizations and restaurants that Peter wouldn’t order from, and he tossed those in the trash without a second thought.

The envelope, though, was something else. Peter frowned. There was no return address on the envelope—just his, typed onto a label. Peter turned the envelope over in his hands. It was light, thin. There couldn’t have been too much in the envelope itself.

Peter heard a car rolling up across from him. He jerked his head up, but he found that it was headed to the building across from him. Peter looked back down at the envelope. No return address.

Peter ripped open the envelope. The envelope was much thinner than he expected, and its spare contents fluttered down to the pavement before Peter could catch them. “Of course,” Peter muttered, and he bent down to pick up whatever had come out of the envelope. He straightened and was in the middle of brushing off the dirt from the corners of the papers when—

All the feeling rushed out of Peter’s hands. He heard the distant thrum of music coming from the car across the street. A door opening. But Peter could only focus on the thing in his hands—not just a thing, a photo. A blurry photo, but one just focused enough for Peter to find himself standing near the window. He had been wearing a ratty t-shirt, his sweatpants. Peter’s mind racked for when he had worn those clothes. A week ago? Two weeks ago?

Hands shaking, Peter looked to the one other paper that had been in the envelope.

And there, at the very center of the slip of paper, were two typed words:

_found you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)))) 
> 
> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t apologize,” Tony interrupted. “That’s a bad habit.”

Tony was halfway to his ride when he saw Peter.

 _So he does come out,_ Tony only just thought when he took another step to his ride and noticed the slight tremble in Peter’s frame. He was looking down at something—something small, just barely concealed in his hands, but whatever it was, Peter was looking down as though he had just seen a ghost or worse.

Tony paused.

“Tony?” the driver stuck his head out from the window. “’s that you?”

“Yeah,” Tony replied. “That’s me.” He started to reach for the door, but too late, he found himself looking back up at Peter again. Even though it was warm out, Peter was still wearing the same jacket he had been wearing the last time Tony had seen him. And even despite the jacket, Peter kept shaking as though it were the middle of winter rather than the beginning of April.

 _He’s fine_ , Tony thought. _He’ll be fine_. He was already running late anyways—

But he looked at Peter again. Even with his jacket on, Peter looked small. Too small. Tony saw the picture of the Peter Parker who had been running across Boston Commons again. And again wondered what exactly happened to that version of Peter Parker.

“Just wait a minute,” Tony said, letting his hand drop from the door handle. Ignoring the driver’s annoyed huff, he walked around the car and crossed the street. _Just a minute_ , he told himself. Just enough to at least direct Peter back in his apartment. Just enough so that the kid wasn’t standing out on the street like a kicked animal. And then Tony would go back to the car and get to the wedding. No one would care if he was just a few minutes late. The time Steve and Bucky gave him was probably ten minutes earlier than the actual time he needed to show up, anyways.

“A bit warm to be wearing a jacket, isn’t it?” Tony asked once he was within a few steps of Peter. He kept his voice light as he flicked his eyes over his neighbor. The kid’s shoulders instantly hunched together, and when Tony looked down at Peter’s hands, he found that his knuckles and fingertips were white from clutching what Tony saw were now papers and an envelope in his hand. Bank letters? Bills? Bad family news?

Tony lifted his eyes away from Peter’s hands and to his face instead. He was pale—paler than the last time Tony had seen him, if that was even possible, chest heaving, breaths coming out in short, frantic pants. Tony’s own chest tightened just listening to him. _Panic_. He knew that panic. Felt that panic before in his worse days—

“Hey,” Tony said, trying to catch Peter’s eyes. “ _Hey_.”

Peter eventually looked up at Tony, his brown eyes wide and glossy, both looking and not quite looking at Tony. “Hey,” Tony repeated a third time. “What’s— _whoa_ , hold on—” Tony just barely managed to catch Peter before the boy’s knees buckled. Tony found Peter’s wrists, slid one of his hands down to keep Peter from falling any farther. Peter’s skin was cold. _Really_ cold.

And then a terrible sound left Peter’s lips, the kind that sent a chill racing up Tony’s spine. It took a moment for Tony to comprehend that Peter was whispering the same words over and over again: _he found me, he found me, he found_ —

“Who found you?” Tony asked. He looked down at the notes still clutched in Peter’s hands. “What—” And then he caught a glimpse of a blurry photograph and a blank—no, not blank—piece of paper: _found you_.

 _What the fuck,_ Tony only thought before he swung his attention back to Peter. Peter, whose eyes were still frozen in that same glossy, panicked stare. “Okay,” Tony said at last. He started to adjust his grip on Peter’s grip. He meant the gesture to just keep Peter steady, but then, as though some switch had been flicked, Peter jerked himself away as though he had been burned. Tony automatically lifted his hands. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” Peter said hoarsely. He leaned against the mailboxes, breathing hard. Tony waited for one second, then two seconds. _Just one minute_ , he had told himself. He needed to get to a wedding. He had told himself just one minute. Just one—

\--

Tony cast Peter a side glance. Peter was leaning against the wall, his head hanging low and his shoulders still bunched together. He looked tired. Tired and cold and miserable, which Tony figured were probably appropriate given the fact that the kid had just received some creepy letter and a photograph. _God_ , was that why Peter never stepped outside?

Tony pushed open the door. “After you,” he said, gesturing inside.

Peter hesitated, but when Tony didn’t move, he took a tentative step into the apartment. Tony waited until Peter had taken at least a few steps in before following himself. For a moment, the two of them stood in the small hallway into the apartment, and then, clearing his throat, Tony gestured towards the living room. “You wanna sit down?” he asked. Not waiting for an answer, he moved past Peter. “And water? Soda?” He paused. “Tea?” He didn’t know why he suggested that. He didn’t even know if he actually had tea.

But Peter just shook his head.

“Okay, well,” Tony said, “I’m thirsty. So I’m getting water.” He returned a second later, carrying two glasses. He passed one to Peter, taking silent notice of how Peter’s hands trembled a little as he took the glass. Tony wordlessly walked over to the couch and sat down. Peter paused and then, a moment later, he sat down on the opposite end of the couch. Tony watched out of the corner of his eye as Peter wrapped his other hand around the glass.

Tony waits one second, two, then three before finally asking, “Do you want to explain to me what’s exactly going on?” He leaned across to the coffee table, where the letters were splayed out across the surface. He sifted through the papers until he came across the photograph. A chill ran up Tony’s spine. The photo was blurry, but the figure was undoubtedly Peter. Tony looked up from the photograph and towards Peter.

When Peter didn’t say anything, Tony pushed out a sigh. “Fine,” he said. “You don’t have to explain things to me.” He tugged out his phone. “Sounds like something the police could handle. Or something that they _have_ to handle.”

At that, Peter startled. “You don’t have to—”

“Like hell I don’t have to,” Tony said, shooting Peter a look over his phone. “Some creep took a picture of you. And sent _that_.” He nodded down to the note spilled out next to the photograph. “Sounds like police-level stuff.” Tony paused as Peter ducked his head down to his lap. “Or do you already have an idea who this sicko is?”

Peter bit down on his lip. “I…” His voice drifted, and he set the undrunk water glass down on the coffee table. Tony again noticed the tremor in Peter’s hands, noticed how Peter forced those hands into his lap and held them tightly together.

Tony swallowed. “Okay,” he said. “None of my business. You can tell that stuff to the police too.” He turned his phone around and held it in front of Peter.

Peter only looked down at Tony’s phone, his brows furrowed. He looked up at Tony wordlessly.

“Your call, kid,” Tony said.

Peter took Tony’s phone.

\--

A few minutes later, Tony was listening to Peter answer the police’s questions. Tony stayed off to the side, alternating between drinking from his own glass of water to sneaking glances at Peter during the questioning. The police that were sent over weren’t terribly imposing figures, but they nodded and took notes, which Tony decided he should feel good about.

Peter’s voice was soft every time he gave an answer: so soft that one of the police officers had to ask Peter to repeat himself a few times. Tony’s grip on his water glass would tighten just a little bit at each time. Peter’s head would droop a little, his shoulders bunching closer up to his ears, and Tony would resist the urge to just repeat Peter’s words himself.

There were other things too: Peter wouldn’t quite meet the police officers in the eye. He would keep his eyes staring at the ground, his hands resting over his kneecaps. Tony noticed the slight squeeze Peter would give his kneecap each time he answered a question, the light intake of breath Peter drew in with each word, as though speaking pained him.

“Well, Mr. Parker,” one of the police officers said towards the end of the questioning, “we’ll keep an eye out. In the meantime, there’s some resources…” Tony watched as Peter silently accepted little leaflets of what Tony assumed were hotline numbers for—what? Stalkers? Creeps?

And afterwards, Tony was asked some questions too. He had seen it coming, and he didn’t have anything to hide, so he answered the questions with ease: _yes_ , he moved in here just a few weeks ago, and _no_ , he hadn’t seen any strange-looking people hanging around the neighborhood lately, and _of course_ , he’ll call the police if he sees anything even remotely suspicious.

“And how do you know Mr. Parker?” one of the police officers asked. She pointed her pen to the window across Tony’s. “Mr. Parker mentioned you two live across each other, but in my experience, most people don’t even get along with the neighbors in their building, let alone the one across.”

“Mutual friend,” Tony replied. He lifted his shoulders. “We were introduced a little while ago.” He glanced over at Peter, who was sitting at the kitchen island, tapping his fingers against the edge of his water glass.

“Nice of you to help,” the police officer commented.

Tony only lifted his shoulders, unsure how quite to respond to that. Uncertain of whether he wanted to tell the police officers the truth that he had basically just seen a shaking, terror-stricken Peter Parker in the middle of the street and felt as though he couldn’t walk away.

“Care for any more drinks?” Tony only asked as the last of the notes were scrawled down.

And a few minute after that, Tony was showing the police officers out of his apartment. “We’ll be keeping in touch, Mr. Parker,” one of the police officers said, flashing what Tony figured was supposed to be a reassuring smile at Peter. “In the meantime, do you have any relatives or friends you can stay with?”

“That’s a bit…” Peter’s voice drifted. Then, he gave the police officers a tight nod. Tony caught the weak, halfhearted twitch of a lip that was supposed to constitute as a smile from Peter’s end, and then the police officers were gone, and then the apartment settled back into silence.

Peter remained by the door, his shoulders hunched over. Tony noticed then that he hadn’t taken off his jacket once. Tony had forgotten to ask. But looking at Peter now, Tony had a feeling that Peter wouldn’t have taken it off no matter if he was asked to or not.

Tony let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he said at last. “So now the police know. They’ll figure something out.” He meant that to hold some semblance of reassurance, but judging by Peter’s still slumped posture, the words didn’t have too much of an effect.

 _Okay_.

Tony took a few steps towards Peter, just enough so that if Peter turned around, they wouldn’t crash into each other. _Don’t touch_ , he thought, remembering the panic across Peter’s face when Tony had taken his wrists. A part of Tony’s stomach twisted at that. He wasn’t exactly a physical contact person himself, but the way Peter looked at him—

Tony thought of the picture of Peter racing across Boston Commons. That version of Peter Parker probably wouldn’t have flinched as badly as the Peter Parker standing in front of Tony.

Before Tony could think of what to say, Peter suddenly fell against the wall, his legs wobbling from beneath him. Tony instinctively reached out, his fingers just barely brushing against the back of Peter’s jacket before Peter was suddenly righting himself, his hands fumbling for a grip against the wall. Tony heard a sharp breath, and then Peter was turning around, his face still pale, his eyes still glassy.

“Sorry,” Peter said, pushing himself off the wall. Tony let his hands fall to his sides as Peter slowly straightened himself. “That was—” He swallowed. “Sorry,” he repeated. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Tony replied. He flicked his eyes across Peter’s face. Even without touching him, Tony could practically feel the cold of Peter’s skin on his fingertips. He jerked his head over his shoulder. “You wanna sit?”

Peter hesitated.

“Let’s sit,” Tony decided to say. But he waited until Peter nodded before walking back into the living room area. Without saying a word, they took the same positions they had before: Tony sitting at one end, Peter on the other. Tony glanced out the window to where Peter’s apartment was. The curtains were still drawn tightly, and Tony wondered if Peter had meant to open them after picking up his mail. If Peter was going to open his curtains ever again.

Tony turned back around to Peter. His hands were clasped tightly over his knees again, the tips of his fingers white from squeezing so hard. He was staring at the coffee table, right where the photograph and the letter still sat amongst the other envelopes.

Tony reached over briefly, flicked the photograph and the letter underneath the pile of other envelopes. When he settled back against the couch, he found Peter’s eyes turned towards him. Tony cleared his throat. “No point in looking at that thing any longer,” he only said. He turned completely so he would be meeting Peter fully in the face. “It’s not my business,” he said, “but I gotta ask—when the police asked if you had anywhere else to stay…”

Peter looked away from Tony’s face. “My apartment’s fine,” he said quietly.

“Really?” Tony asked, flicking his eyes back to the envelopes sitting on the coffee table. “Because it seems like that creep who sent you that _thing_ knows your apartment. Doesn’t sound like the best place.”

“I’ve got a key,” Peter replied. As though trying to reassure himself, he dug one hand into his pocket. When he found what Tony assumed was the key, he saw the tightness on Peter’s face relax just the slightest. But that wasn’t enough, and Tony had a feeling that Peter knew that as well as he did.

“If locks couldn’t be broken into, then we wouldn’t have such thing as burglaries,” Tony said, nodding down at Peter’s pocket. He waited until Peter turned to him before speaking again. “Whoever this guy is probably already knows where you live. The police say that they’re going to work on this, but that doesn’t mean that you’re in the clear.” He paused. “But you know that, don’t you?”

Peter looked away. “I’ll be fine,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t look fine.”

“Since when did you care?” Peter’s head whipped back at Tony, his brows furrowed and mouth set in a tight line. “You don’t even know me.”

 _Okay, fine. Point for Parker_.

“You’re right,” Tony heard himself say. “I don’t.” He gestured out the window. “But I saw someone panicking out in the street there, and maybe I’ve got just a bigger conscience than my friends would suggest. I told you,” he added dryly at Peter’s expression, “sarcasm isn’t my only personality trait.”

“Your friends—” Realization dawned on Peter’s face, and then he said in a distant voice, “You were heading out to a car.”

“Yeah,” Tony replied, leaning back into the couch. “So?”

“So?” Peter repeated. “You’re supposed to be at a wedding rehearsal.”

“Wedding, actually,” Tony said. He regretted saying those words as soon as they left his mouth, because then Peter was standing up, his eyes wide. Still, Tony kept his voice even as he replied, “It’s fine to be a little late. Nothing to worry about.”

“You—” Peter’s voice came out strangled. “You can’t miss the wedding because of me. You don’t even _know_ me.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Tony replied, standing up. “But again, maybe I’ve got a bigger conscience than my friends think.” He looked at Peter. “Stop staring,” he said. “You open your eyes any wider, and they’re going to pop right out of your head.”

“What are you still _doing_ here?” Peter only asked. “What were you—”

“What, did you expect me to just ditch you in the middle of the street?” Tony asked in response. He gestured out the window again. “Hey, neighbor, how’re you doing? Looks like you’ve got some trouble over there—no, you’re good? Great. Let me just leave for a wedding.”

When Peter didn’t say anything, Tony let out a breath. “Don’t feel bad about this,” he said. “Steve and Bucky won’t care if I’m a little late. They’d probably do the same if they were the ones who saw you instead of me. They might have gotten to you even faster,” he added, though whether he meant to say that for himself or for Peter, Tony wasn’t sure himself.

“I’m—”

“Don’t apologize,” Tony interrupted. “That’s a bad habit.”

“You should go,” Peter said, tightening his jacket around himself. “I should go.”

“And where would you be going?” Tony asked. “Back to your apartment?”

Peter groaned—a sound that Tony hadn’t been expecting. Peter sounded oddly like his age then, a somewhat exasperated, frustrated sound that would only come from someone as young as himself. In that moment, Tony could easily picture the Peter Parker who raced across Boston Commons emitting a similar sound. “We’re not doing this again,” Peter said wearily.

Tony opened his mouth to shoot back a retort—but then his phone buzzed. Aware of Peter’s eyes on him, Tony tugged out his phone. A text message from Natasha: _where are you????_

Alright, fine. Maybe he was more than just a little late at this point.

“You should go,” Peter repeated. “I should go.”

Tony snapped his eyes up from his phone. And looking at Peter, Tony felt a quick pitch in his gut—the kind of pitch that only occurred before he was about to go through with a terrible idea that would usually have had Pepper or Steve reeling.

But what the hell—Tony wasn’t about to leave Peter alone in this place.

“You’re right,” Tony said. He moved past Peter and to his room. He re-emerged with a blazer—black, a flash of red from the inner lining—that he figured would make a decent fit for his neighbor. He held it out for Peter, who only stared at the blazer blankly. Ignoring the pitch in his stomach, Tony asked, “How do you feel about going to a wedding?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why’re you doing this?” Peter asked at last.

Out of all the things Tony could have possibly said, Peter hadn’t been expecting _that_.

“What?” he asked.

“A wedding,” Tony said, still holding out the blazer. “ _The_ wedding. Whichever.” The blazer was still waiting for him. “Be my unofficial plus-one. It won’t even be that awkward. Steve and Bucky know you—or at least, Steve does. And you already know Nat and Pepper. There’s some other faces, but they don’t matter.”

Peter stared at Tony. “You can’t be serious.”

“Most of the time I’m not, but today I am,” Tony replied dryly. “Must have been something in the water.”

“Why?” Peter only asked. “You don’t know me.”

“That’s the third time you’ve told me that now,” Tony said. He held up the blazer, matching it over Peter’s front. “This might be a little big, but the lighting will be dim anyways. No one will notice too much.”

Peter lowered the blazer. “You don’t have to do this.”

“You’re right,” Tony replied. “I don’t. But I am.” He looked at Peter, and Peter waited for some smirk or look that would tell him that this was all some joke. But Tony only held up the blazer again, tilting his head to the side as his eyes skimmed over the measurements. “Thing is,” Tony said, taking the blazer off the hanger, “I don’t think you staying here by yourself is a good idea.” That was when he paused, meeting Peter’s eyes. Tony’s eyes were dark, serious—intense, that was what they were. A shiver ran up Peter’s spine, though not entirely unpleasantly. He became aware of how the blazer was still pressed against his front.

“Why’re you doing this?” Peter asked at last. He forced himself to maintain Tony’s stare.

“Don’t know,” Tony replied. He pressed the blazer against Peter again, and this time, Peter held onto the blazer when Tony let go. Tony gave Peter a lopsided smile. “I’ll tell you when I figure that out myself.” He nodded his head at Peter. “Now give that a spin. Can’t promise it’ll fit perfectly, but…”

Peter shrugged out of his jacket. He tugged on the blazer Tony had given him gingerly, as though it might disintegrate under his hands. Peter caught a whiff of some cologne, some other musk that could have been a mix of Tony and moving boxes. But he didn’t mind. Peter slung his jacket over his arm and looked up at Tony. The blazer _was_ a little large: the shoulders were just a little wider, the arms just a little longer, but the blazer wasn’t large enough for Peter to feel swallowed by the thing.

“Not bad,” Tony said when Peter looked up. “You’ll blend in just fine.”

“Blend in,” Peter repeated, his stomach pitching. “At a wedding I wasn’t invited too.”

“You’re my plus one,” Tony replied. “And like I said, Steve and Bucky wouldn’t mind if you came. They might actually just consider it a pleasant surprise.”

Peter tugged at the corner of his jacket. He was tempted to shrug out of Tony’s blazer, throw it back to him, shove on his own jacket, and bolt for his own apartment. But his own apartment wasn’t entirely safe. Peter closed his eyes briefly. _Found you._

He couldn’t even walk into his usual hangouts with MJ and Ned anymore. He couldn’t walk into movie theaters or parks without feeling like someone was going to tug the world right from under his feet. He couldn’t stay out after dark without feeling like someone was watching him, waiting for him around the corner—

Peter’s stomach pitched again. But someone probably already _was_ waiting around the corner. _He_ had been waiting around the corner this entire time. Not just around the corner, but probably right in front of his own window. He could have been standing right in front of his door for all Peter knew. He had been standing right in front of Peter’s apartment building, taking that grainy photo just to send it to him—just to let him know that he _knew where he was now_ —

Peter opened his eyes. “Okay,” he heard himself say. “Let’s do it.”

Tony looked at Peter. “Okay,” he repeated, taking out his phone. But before dialing any numbers, Tony paused and looked at Peter again. There was a different expression on Tony’s face now: one that Peter couldn’t quite decipher, nor one that Peter could bring himself to decipher. “This is probably strange for you.”

“What gave that away?” Peter asked, clutching at his jacket.

“You’re like an open book,” Tony replied, looking back down at his phone. He didn’t look up as he tapped the screen a few times. “But also, your situation would leave anyone feeling…” He flicked his eyes back at Peter. “Shaken.”

Peter didn’t know what to say to that. So he settled for a halfhearted shrug.

“What I’m saying is,” Tony said, looking back down at his phone, “we can leave whenever you want. Things start feeling difficult or out of place, just give me the word, and we’ll leave.” He paused. “Probably should have led with that,” he added. “But now you know. If you need to walk out, we walk out.”

Peter’s mouth went dry. He remembered a different day, a different night, when Tony had been looking up at the ceiling as though he could find some answers there. This was a day that Tony had been dreading, Peter knew then. Maybe not dreading out of necessarily pining or heartache—Peter hadn’t caught any of that whenever Steve had been around Tony, but of something else that was deeper than either feeling. Peter saw Tony awkwardly stumbling up from the living room floor then, mumbling something about needing to use the bathroom as Steve and Pepper had watched him go with pained and guilty expressions. That had only been a week ago, Peter knew, and yet he felt as though that was a whole different lifetime. And now the different lifetime was here: a different lifetime that brought with this day. Before thinking any better of it, Peter asked, “And what about you?”

When Tony’s dark eyes met his, Peter swallowed. “What about you?” he repeated. “When you want to walk out? What are we going to do then?”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Peter wondered if he had said the wrong thing—how he must have said the wrong thing—but then Tony gave him a weary smile.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said at last.

\--

Tony had mostly been right. There had been a few confused looks thrown Peter and Tony’s way in the beginning, but Tony had muttered something about how that must have been because they were a little late—and they were, but no one outright said anything. Natasha and Pepper came swooping in to their rescue before anything more awkward could happen, though, and Peter found himself sitting at a table with them later in the evening.

There hadn’t been too many people at the wedding either: Steve and Bucky’s wedding was at a beautiful venue, one lit by silver fairy lights and adorned with stargazer lilies. Close friends—mostly from Steve and Bucky’s military days, family members, college friends. The vows had been tearful affairs: Steve had started tearing up a little, and then Bucky, and then they had both started laughing—giggling, really, quiet, _what-are-we-doing_ giggles, and then Bucky had looked at the audience and said, “We _promised_ we wouldn’t cry, but as you can all tell, we’ve failed miserably”, which made the audience laugh too.

The best man—who introduced himself as Sam Wilson, nicknamed ‘Falcon’ for an unknown reason—delivered a speech on both Bucky and Steve’s behalf, switching between the two with a bravado that Peter doubted no one else would have been able to pull off. In the end, everyone had started howling and hooting, and Peter’s ears hurt for a few moments, and he gripped his knees hard enough to bruise, but Sam quieted the audience with a wave of his hand. “Come on, come on,” he drawled. “I didn’t just come here to humiliate these idiots…” And Bucky and Steve’s faces had both been a ridiculous shade of pink, and the audience had finally calmed, and Peter was able to find some normalcy in his breathing again.

Across the table, Peter lifted his eyes to meet Tony’s, and in that moment, Tony flicked his eyes to the doors: a silent question, and Peter only nodded once to let him know that things were under control. Tony had lifted an eyebrow: _are you sure?_ And Peter had nodded again, feeling both exasperated and weirdly touched that Tony had been bothered to check—

But that didn’t matter. Peter ripped his eyes away from Tony and focused on the next set of wedding festivities. Family dances. Peter saw Steve and Bucky’s mothers for the first time. Steve’s mother was a small woman, much smaller than Steve’s towering height, but she had Steve’s shining blue eyes and his smile. Bucky’s mother was built a little more like her son, tall, broad-shouldered, and she laughed the same short, cheerful way that he did.

And after the family dances had ended, the dance floor was opened for everyone. Natasha and Pepper started wheedling Tony out, and Peter took that chance to slip into the bathroom. There were already some people inside: other friends of Bucky and Steve’s, and Peter stopped in the doorway for a moment, feeling stupid and insignificant compared to the official guests.

But no one seemed to notice Peter yet again. He slipped towards the sinks and ran his hands under warm water just for the sake of ridding the numbness in his hands. He let his hands sit under the running faucet a second longer than was probably normal before reaching for the soap. He noticed that the soap canister was already half empty. It would probably be out by the time the night ended.

Peter scrubbed at his hands hard, hard enough to nearly pick apart his skin. He kept scrubbing: picking under his nails, practically jamming his hands into each other, wrists rubbed raw until there was no one else in the bathroom.

That was when Peter lifted his head to the mirror and took an actual look at himself.

Face pale, and that had nothing to do with the fluorescents of the bathroom. Eyes just a little too wide. A crease between his eyebrows. Peter reached up to his forehead, smoothed the crease out. With a painful jab to the chest, Peter hoped that he hadn’t looked like that the whole night.

But then again, no one might have noticed.

There was something somewhat comforting in that: no one noticing. No one noticing meant that Peter was truly blending in. And Peter blending in meant that there was no danger. Meant that there wouldn’t be anyone waiting for him around the corner—

Peter slammed his hands down on the sink to catch himself. He felt the cool porcelain against his skin, the thin film of soap still left over in his hands. Clean. He needed to get clean. He always had to get clean, scrubbing away at the bruises that would be left on his wrists, his forearms as though soap and water would be enough to wipe his skin clean. He would sometimes stand in the shower for ages when he was alone in the old apartment—in the old place, the bad place, the wrong place, the broken place—and he would wait and wait and wait in there until he couldn’t feel himself anymore.

Peter’s hands slipped from the sink, and before he knew what was happening, he was crashing to the ground, knees first. Peter couldn’t keep the sharp cry from leaving his lips on impact to the cold, tiled floor. He closed his lips tightly together, bowed his head and only barely loosed a soft, barely-contained strangle of a sound. _Quiet, stay quiet_. He had to stay quiet back then too—stay _quiet_ , _ssh_ —before there would be cold words, a slammed door. Hands wrapped around his wrists, his arms, and one time his throat. There had been hands wrapped around his throat once, and Peter had wrapped a scarf around his neck for weeks on end even though it was the middle of spring, even though the spring months slowly melted into summer.

 _Stay quiet_.

May had been so worried then. MJ and Ned too. They had all been worried. And Peter had smiled through most of it back then, insisting that no, he was just cold, that was why he was wearing the scarf and the long-sleeved shirts even though it was warm out. He would go back to the old apartment, back where _he_ was, and some nights would be good: quiet, almost normal.

But most nights weren’t.

 _Stay quiet_.

The door suddenly swung open, and Peter didn’t even have time to lift his head before he heard Tony say, “ _There_ you are. I thought you were—” And even without looking, Peter knew that Tony was frowning when he asked, “What happened? Are you…”

Before Peter could protest, Tony was on the ground next to him. “Did you…”

“I tripped,” Peter mumbled, feeling warmth creep up his cheeks. He started to stand up, wincing at the sharp sting in his palms and his knees as moved. A soft hiss of pain left his lips as he pushed himself upwards.

“Here,” Tony said, standing up. His hand appeared in front of Peter. “Careful now.”

“I’m fine,” Peter said, ignoring Tony’s hand. Or at least, tried to. But he stumbled on his way up to his feet, and this time, he instinctively reached out in time for Tony to steady him. Tony’s hands were calloused, warm, in Peter’s. Sure, steady as Tony guided Peter towards the sink.

“There we go,” Tony said. He looked down at Peter’s palms, which Peter knew were already reddening. “Any scrapes?”

“No,” Peter replied, dropping his hands from Tony’s. “Just need to clean them again.” With that, he turned on the faucet again. He scrubbed at his hands, forcing to keep his eyes down on the sink as the seconds ticked by between Tony and himself. He became aware of the fluorescent lights beating down on them from overhead, the soft laughter floating from the dance floor. The distant thump of a bass. Chairs being scraped back for more room.

When Peter turned off the faucet, Tony handed him a paper towel. “Want to go for some fresh air?” he asked.

Peter regarded Tony warily over the paper towel. “Why?”

“Because we’ve been breathing the same stale air for hours now,” Tony replied. “Fresh air’s great. It’s a thing I’ve discovered since California.” His face was neutral as he asked, “Unless you planned on dancing?”

“No,” Peter replied automatically.

“Outdoors it is then,” Tony said.

\--

A few minutes later, Peter was standing in what appeared to be a small courtyard. There was a small tree planted at the center, some bushes and flowerbeds. The only sources of light were the dim glow of the silver fairy lights and the thin sliver of moon above them, and besides the thrum of music from a little ways, the courtyard was quiet.

Peter let out his first breath.

“Better?” Tony asked. He was standing across Peter, leaning against one of the lit pillars leading to the courtyard. Under the glow of the fairy lights, one side of his face seemed lit by silver, the other shadowed by the dark.

“A little,” Peter replied. He took another breath. “Getting there.” _Or at least, trying to._

“That’s good,” Tony said. “ _Getting there_ is good.” He cleared his throat. “Say what you will about the venue, but at least this thing works out okay. Courtyards are perfect for quick escapes.”

Peter forced a wobbly smile. “Speaking from experience?” he asked.

“Me? Never,” Tony replied dryly. “I’m thinking _Rear Window_. Grace Kelly crossing the courtyard. Or _Aladdin_.”

Peter looked at Tony, unsure whether to take him seriously or not.

Catching the glance, Tony said, “Don’t be so surprised. Disney’s everywhere.”

Peter felt his lips twitch. “Yeah,” he replied, turning away from Tony. He directed his gaze towards the center tree. “Still didn’t see that coming, though. Is _Aladdin_ the only one you know?”

“ _Lion King_ ,” Tony replied.

“That doesn’t count,” Peter said. “That’s gotten big because of Broadway.”

“You don’t like _Lion King_?”

“I love _Lion King_ ,” Peter replied.

“Okay,” Tony said, and Peter caught the little smile on the man’s face. “So _Lion King_. What’s the problem?”

“No problem,” Peter replied, pretending that he hadn’t noticed the smile. “Just…whatever.”

“Then what about you?”

“Hm?”

“Disney movies,” Tony replied. “Come on, if _I’ve_ even seen a few, then you _definitley_ had to.”

Peter kept his eyes on the tree. “ _Lilo and Stitch_ ,” he said after a while. “Loved that movie as a kid.” He looked at Tony, waiting for a reaction. When he didn’t find any, Peter added, “It’s about a girl and this alien friend.”

“Well, if there’s _aliens_ ,” Tony said.

Ignoring the comment, Peter added, “Lilo’s parents both died in a car accident, and she’s alone with her big sister. She doesn’t have a whole ton of friends, so she prays for one.” He remembered the scenes so clearly. He had watched that movie when he had moved back in with May for that brief time—that brief time in between the bad place and the apartment he had now—and he remembered falling asleep to that movie still playing in the background. “Lilo’s big sister overhears her prayers, and they go to the dog kennel, where there’s actually an alien named Stitch pretending to be a dog.” Peter frowned. “Always kind of funny that Lilo doesn’t actually figure out that Stitch was an alien.”

“Disney,” Tony supplied.

Peter gave a noncommittal shrug in response. “It’s a good movie,” he only said.

“Could see the appeal.”

Peter looked at Tony, again expecting some smirk, but Tony wasn’t looking at Peter. He was looking at the tree too, his arms still casually crossed over his chest, face still half-lit by the fairy lights. Looking away before Tony could catch him, Peter added quietly, “You don’t have to stay here you know.”

When Peter felt Tony’s eyes on him, Peter continued, “I’m okay on my own.” He kept his eyes on the tree. “I don’t need you to…” His face burned. His hands still burned, but Peter had a feeling it had nothing to do with the fact that he had tripped in the bathroom. “Do this,” he finished lamely.

For a moment, there was only silence—silence punctuated by trickling laughter and music.

Then, Tony said, “You keep telling me that.”

“Because it’s true,” Peter replied. He flicked his eyes at Tony, found Tony already turned towards him. “Just…” His voice drifted. Tony’s whole face was lit in the fairy lights now, and Peter caught the strands of silver, light and dark brown in his hair. Tony was watching him carefully, eyebrows slightly furrowed together. Worried. Tony was worried, Peter realized dully.

“Don’t,” Peter said at last. The word tasted bitter in his mouth. “Just don’t,” he repeated, and unsure and unable to find what to say next, he left the courtyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> (Also, if you would like some more starker content, I recently released another story called 'a kiss away from reality'. Just basically two idiots trying really hard not to kiss each other for fourteen chapters straight, if any of y'all are interested!)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony puffed out a frustrated breath. “What’re you trying to say, Rogers?”

Tony watched Peter make his way back to the inside of the venue. His head was bowed, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched over. Tony remained by the pillar, mulling over the possibility of walking after Peter. He could. He didn’t have to. He didn’t have to do _anything_. Peter had made that pretty clear himself.

But as Peter faded into the crowd of the wedding guests, Tony felt a surge of frustration well up inside him. Fine. Tony didn’t _have_ to do anything, but _he_ was still the one who brought Peter to this wedding, so the _least_ he could do was just make sure that the kid didn’t get into any trouble. Nodding to himself in agreement, Tony made at least three paces towards the wedding venue before Steve stepped out in front of him.

“There he is,” Tony said, letting his arms drop to his sides. “Great place you’ve picked out, by the way.”

“You’ve already been here for the rehearsals,” Steve pointed out.

“So I was,” Tony replied. He craned his head over Steve’s shoulder. He caught a glimpse of Peter’s head before Steve turned around, following Tony’s gaze. Tony quickly dropped himself back to his feet as Steve turned back around to him.

Frowning, Steve asked, “Were you looking for someone?”

“Plus one,” Tony replied. At Steve’s lifted eyebrow, he said, “I know, it’s a new thing.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, actually,” Steve said, and Tony focused on the fact that Steve was no longer smiling. “How’d you invite Peter?”

“You said I was allowed to bring guests,” Tony replied. “ _And_ you said that I should be a good neighbor, so I decided to invite him. Nice and simple.” Only of course, things weren’t simple, but Tony wasn’t sure how much of that he wanted to give away just yet. He looked over Steve’s shoulder again. Peter’s head had disappeared. Tony bleakly hoped that Peter had just sat down at a table or something.

“And he just said yes?” Steve asked, his voice laced with a kind of doubt that snapped Tony’s attention back to him.

“Yeah,” Tony replied. “He did.”

“Really,” Steve said. “Because Peter has a hard time coming out of his own apartment, let alone to a function like _this_.”

Tony puffed out a frustrated breath. “What’re you trying to say, Rogers?”

“I’m not trying to say anything.”

“Bullshit.”

Steve’s brows furrowed, and Tony felt the slightest kick of satisfaction to his chest. Steve had never liked it when he swore, even when Tony insisted that words like _bullshit_ didn’t count. Now, Tony crossed his arms over his chest. “So I’m gonna ask again: what’re you trying to say?”

Steve only looked at Tony. “Do I really have to?” When Tony didn’t respond, Steve sighed. “I’m just saying take it easy on him. He’s young.”

“Take it—” Tony took another look at Steve’s face before saying, “I’m not _fucking_ him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I told you I’m not _trying_ to—”

“For _fuck’s_ sake, Rogers,” Tony growled. “That wasn’t—we’ve known each other for less than a _month_.”

Steve gave him a pointed look.

“Fine, maybe bad argument, but—” Tony shook his head. “For _fuck’s_ sake,” he repeated. “Look, he’s got some stuff, right? _This_ might come as a shocker, but I’m not going to be the asshole who decides to prey on some kid’s fucked up nerves.” Steve flinched again, and this time, that kick of satisfaction in Tony’s chest turned into a thundering wave. “For _fuck’s_ sake,” Tony said again. “He…” He looked around for no other reason than to clear his head. “Peter got some fucking _note_ , got it? There were police involved.”

Steve blinked. “Police?”

“Yeah,” Tony said bitterly. “Some sick fuck’s been stalking your neighbor. Explains a lot, actually. That’s why I was late today.”

“You were…”

“I found him,” Tony said, flicking his eyes back to Steve. “He wasn’t…” His voice drifted. “Point is,” he said roughly, “he wasn’t going to stay there by himself, not like that. And he didn’t seem to want to go to any other place, so I figured I’d bring him here. At least have him away from that place for the time being.” At Steve’s incredulous look, Tony added, “I _know_ it’s not the best place—I _know_ —but time was running out, and someone needed to make a call.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. Tony was contemplating whether he should just go back into the main space to start looking for Peter when Steve said, “I don’t really know what to say.”

“Yeah, well,” Tony muttered, “it’s a weird situation.”

“Does Peter have family nearby? Maybe you could give them a call.”

“Yeah, the police asked about them too,” Tony replied, thinking about the tight little smile Peter had given the police officers.

“And?” Steve asked.

Tony looked at Steve. “And,” he replied, “Peter wanted to stay at his apartment anyway. He didn’t explain anything more than that.”

Again, they lapsed back into silence. Then, with a sigh, Steve said, “I’m glad that you decided to help him out.” Another beat of silence passed before he added, quieter, “And I’m sorry about making any assumptions.”

“Apology accepted,” Tony replied, though the words tasted sour in his mouth. But not wanting to linger on this topic for any longer, he only clapped Steve on the shoulder. “Congratulations again, Rogers,” he said, and he walked past Steve and towards the rest of the venue.

\--

Tony eventually found Peter sitting back at their table. He was alone, his head propped up on a hand. Something untwisted in Tony’s chest at the sight, and before he knew what was happening, he was walking quickly over to the table. He weaved past dancers, waving once at Natasha, who had turned her head in time to watch him make his way across the space. Natasha lifted an eyebrow, her face temporarily lit up by the lights flashing down on the dance floor. But Tony only waved again— _fine, things are fine_ —and Natasha only waited a moment before she was tugged away by Pepper.

Tony made his way to the table eventually, and seating himself a seat away from Peter, he said, “I’m not much of a dancer, anyways.” He crossed his arms, looking determinedly towards the dance floor. “And,” he added, “the courtyard was starting to get crowded, so that’s why I had to come back here.” He nodded towards the dance floor. “Of course, _this_ place is crowded too, but it’s a different kind of crowded. So it makes sense for me to be here.” He kept his eyes on the dancers, waiting for Peter’s oncoming protests—but to his surprise, no protest came.

Tony felt a little bit of relief at that. “Great,” he said. “Glad that we’ve agreed on this one thing.”

Still no response.

And then Tony turned to look at Peter— _really_ look at Peter, and then he smirked.

From across the dim venue, Tony hadn’t been able to tell, but now a little closer, Tony could see that Peter’s eyes were closed, his hand slipping against his cheek. A few curls had fallen down Peter’s forehead, sweeping past his eyebrows, and he looked—for the first time since Tony had ever seen him—at peace.

Tony loosed a half-disbelieved, half-amazed breath of a laugh. “Seriously,” he muttered, leaning back in his seat. “All this noise, and you’re able to sleep?”

But Peter remained asleep, and Tony remained at the table.

\--

It was late when the wedding guests finally started to leave. And all through the while, Peter had slept, eventually migrating his head from his hand to his arm, which folded over on the table. But now, as people were filing out of the room and saying their goodbyes, Tony found himself looking at Peter again, trying to look for the best way to wake him without…Tony remembered the look Peter had given him when he had taken his wrists. He wasn’t sure either of them wanted a repeat of that right now.

So clearing his throat, Tony leaned a little towards Peter. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Time to wake up.”

But Peter didn’t open his eyes. He only nestled his cheek a little closer against his arm, and Tony looked up and around, as though something in the room could be used to wake Peter. But when no inspiration came, Tony looked back down at Peter. He pushed himself out of his chair, and leaning over Peter, said, “Come on, Pete—party’s over.”

This time, to Tony’s relief, Peter opened his eyes. He blinked once, twice, his movements slow. Then, taking in his surroundings, Peter bolted up in his seat. Fortunately, he was now clearly awake.

Unfortunately, his head knocked back against Tony’s chin.

There were sharp cries from both of them as Peter rubbed his head, and Tony rubbed his chin. Then, whirling around in his chair, Peter said, “I’m _so sorry_ —”

“You’re good,” Tony grunted, wincing. “You awake?”

“Yeah—I’m—” Peter rubbed his head again, his face twisting into a grimace as his fingers brushed over what Tony only assume was going to be the beginning of a bruise. “Sorry,” he repeated.

“You’re good,” Tony repeated. He cleared his throat. “Ready to leave?”

Peter looked around the emptying venue. There were still a few people talking in clusters, but most of the area had emptied. “Yeah,” he said, turning back around to Tony. “Sounds good.”

“Great,” Tony replied, gesturing out the doors. “After you.”

So Peter walked out of the great space, Tony following a few steps behind. He caught again the sneaking and curious glances of a few of the other guests, but Tony kept his eyes swung forward to the back of Peter’s head. He thought he heard a whisper as Peter and he walked past, but Tony still didn’t bother looking. Still, the fact that there was a whisper alone twisted Tony’s stomach. Steve’s words slipped past him again—the implication laced within his words sending a chill up Tony’s spine. Did Steve actually think Tony and Peter were—

But that was stupid. Ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous.

Tony kept focused on Peter’s back as they met the outside of the venue. Peter was young. _Really_ young. Peter had graduated college nearly thirty years after Tony did. That, plus the fact that Peter seemed to hate being outside. That, plus the fact that Peter had a whole closet full of skeletons Tony wasn’t sure either of them were prepared to open just yet. That, plus the fact that just a few hours ago, Peter had looked at him and said “ _don’t_ ” with those pained eyes of his.

That, plus the fact that Peter was now was standing a little distance away from Tony, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his shoulders tensed as though any minute, someone might actually come barreling out from behind one of the pillars outside.

Tony shoved Steve out of his mind and tugged out his phone. A few minutes later, his requested car came around, and again, Tony gestured for Peter to enter first. He was about to head inside himself when he heard Pepper call after him.

“Leaving already?”

Tony turned around, and to his surprise, it was just Pepper alone—without Natasha or Steve or Bucky or anyone else. She had her hands clasped in front of her, lips upturned into a small smile. “I figured you would at least be here for a little longer,” Pepper said now, tilting her head towards Tony.

“Long night,” Tony replied, leaning against the door. “What about you? Heading back?” He nodded into the venue. “Or is Nat still interrogating people?”

“She might be,” Pepper replied nonchalantly. “I’m not about to interrupt her.”

“Wise move.”

“As always?” Pepper suggested.

“As always,” Tony agreed.

Pepper smiled. Then, walking towards Tony, she said, “I won’t hold you up too long. Or…” She looked over Tony’s shoulder, to where he knew she was probably taking a quick glimpse at Peter. “Your plus one.” She waved, and Tony heard movement from behind him and imagined that Peter was probably waving back. Pepper turned her eyes back towards Tony. “We’ll be seeing you again soon, right?”

“Probably,” Tony replied, trying to sound bored, but at Pepper’s long look, Tony acquiesced, “Right.”

“Good,” Pepper said. She paused, and then, quietly, she said, “Take care of yourself, Tony.”

“You too, Pep,” Tony replied.

Pepper smiled again. “Good night,” she said, taking a step back. She craned her neck over Tony’s shoulder and added, “And good night, Peter! It was good seeing you!”

There was another exchange of “good night”s and “get home safe” before Pepper left, and as soon as she was out of earshot, Tony let out a breath. He slumped back against the door, and for a moment, he could just breathe before realizing that Peter was still waiting behind him.

“Right,” he said at last, sliding into the backseat. He left the middle seat open between Peter and himself—just enough distance. “Let’s get out of here.”

\--

Tony wasn’t sure when his own eyes had started closing, but he startled awake because he heard the soft brush of cloth on the car seat near him. Only a moment later, he turned to find Peter swaying towards the middle seat, his eyes closed and body limp. He’d fallen asleep again, Tony realized just a second before Peter could hit the middle seat.

Before he could think better of it, Tony shifted just in time to catch Peter’s head by the shoulder before he could hit the seat. Tony sucked in a breath, waiting for Peter to wake up, but no, Peter remained asleep. Tony waited three, four, five seconds before letting out his breath, turning briefly away from Peter as though breath alone would wake him.

When Tony finally gathered enough strength to turn back around, he found himself looking down at Peter’s curls, the curve of his face. Tony took in another breath and held it as Peter suddenly shifted against Tony’s shoulder, his cheek just barely brushing against Tony’s shoulder.

The next few minutes felt like a game: how many breaths could Tony take before Peter would move again. How many seconds before Tony could breathe again.

But Peter eventually stilled, his head perched at what must have been a comfortable enough position for him—and Tony let his head fall back against the seat, his eyes moving up to the ceiling of the car. He didn’t dare close his own eyes, not even when his body ached of tiredness.

And he was glad he didn’t fall asleep, because when the car finally pulled up in front of the apartment building, Tony knew that he would have to be the one to wake Peter again this time. Only the question now—Tony glanced up at Peter’s apartment building across his own, and then he looked back down at Peter’s peaceful sleeping face.

And Tony wondered exactly what kind of person—what kind of sick fuck—would have been responsible for disrupting that peace.

\--

“Okay,” Tony grunted, shoving his door open. “Come on, one step at a time.”

Peter’s head only lolled at Tony’s shoulder as they made their way across the apartment: past the living room, past the kitchen, and then Tony shoved open the door to the spare room. He tried not to trip as he hauled Peter and himself towards the bed.

“Okay,” Tony repeated, gingerly seating themselves down on the mattress. He unwound Peter’s arm from around his shoulders. “In we go.”

Peter opened his eyes once, and Tony thought he was going to actually wake and start protesting, but to his—relief?—surprise, Peter only closed his eyes again, clearly too exhausted to put up a fight. Tony reached over Peter and tugged open the covers. He slid off the bed next, undoing the laces of Peter’s shoes. He set them at the foot of the bed, and after tugging off the jacket, he let Peter crash into the mattress.

Tony sighed, letting it fill the small bedroom. He folded the jacket over on top of the small desk and headed for the door. Only once he reached the door did he turn around.

Peter was sleeping on his side, his back turned to Tony. He hadn’t even bothered covering himself with the blankets. He shivered once.

Tony hovered by the doorway for a second longer. And then he found himself walking back to Peter. He tugged the covers over him, just enough to at least cover his shoulders. Peter shifted a little, and Tony froze, but then Peter settled back into the pillow, a soft sigh leaving his lips.

With that, Tony slowly retreated from the bedroom.

\--

Tony woke up to hearing an awful, terrible sound.

He bolted up from the couch, nearly falling over to the ground before realizing that _oh, right_ —he wasn’t alone in the apartment. He stilled, unsure what exactly he had woken up to—but then he heard the sound again: a high-pitched keening. Not quite a scream or a moan, but something just as chilling.

 _Peter_.

Tony made his way into the bedroom, opening the door just in time to see Peter wake.

“Peter?” Tony only asked, but Peter was already sitting up, his chest rising and falling heavily. Too fast. Even in the dim light of the bedroom, Tony could make out how pale Peter’s face was, could make out the light sheen of sweat covering his forehead. Peter’s breaths shuddered out of him, causing Tony’s own chest to ache as he took a few steps forward. “Peter,” Tony repeated. “You…”

Peter looked at Tony then, his eyes wide. “What—” Realization seemed to dawn on him then, and Peter looked around the bedroom before focusing on Tony again. “Your place?”

“Yeah,” Tony replied. “Wasn’t sure whether to take you back to your apartment. Actually,” he added, “I still don’t think it’s a good idea to—wait, hang on—” But Peter was already pushing himself out of the bed, stumbling towards the wall.

“Where…” Peter spun around, and then, finding his shoes, he quickly yanked them on.

“What are you doing?” Tony asked, but he already knew what Peter was going to say before the words were out.

“Heading back,” Peter replied. He looked around the bedroom, his eyebrows furrowing. And then, looking at Tony, he said, “My jacket.”

“It’s—” But Tony didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Peter was suddenly shoving past him, away from the bedroom, down the hall, past the kitchen and the living room and towards the small closet that contained all the jackets. It wasn’t until Tony heard the yank of Peter’s jacket against a hanger did Tony actually move his feet.

“Hang on!” he said, turning around. He walked towards Peter. “It’s…” He looked at the clock. “Three in the morning. What’s the point in going back to your place now?”

“This was a mistake,” was all Peter said. He shoved on his jacket, and not looking at Tony, he said, “You shouldn’t have—”

“Not this again,” Tony interrupted. He looked at Peter. “It’s three in the morning. It’s dark. And you just got some _shitty_ news. Are you seriously about to go back in there?”

“Seriously am,” Peter replied. He swung open Tony’s door, and then he was gone, leaving Tony to stare at the empty space where Peter had just been.

“ _Shit_ ,” Tony muttered, and then he threw on his own jacket and headed out the door just in time to see Peter disappear down the flight of stairs. “ _Shit_ ,” Tony repeated, and then he was heading down the stairs after Peter. And Peter had to have heard Tony, but he didn’t turn around—not once, not even when Tony followed Peter across the street and into his own apartment building.

It wasn’t until Tony was standing in front of Peter’s own door— _Peter’s door_ —before Peter suddenly stopped, whirling around to face him. “Can you…” Peter’s voice was quiet now, the franticness now faded from his tone.

Peter looked up at Tony. His eyes were dark, so dark that Tony could barely tell the iris from the pupil. “Can you do me a favor?” he asked at last.

Tony’s chest tightened. And stupidly, naturally, automatically, he replied, “Sure.”

“Forget about me,” Peter said.

“What?”

“Forget about me,” Peter repeated. He reached for the door, already undoing the lock. He looked away from Tony, showing only his profile. A curl dangled from Peter’s forehead. “I mean it.” The door unlocked, and Peter looked at Tony.

“Why’re you saying that?” Tony asked. He looked at the door, then at Peter. “Is this about that creep? Are you scared that he’s—”

“I can handle it,” Peter said. But Tony noticed that Peter’s grip on the door handle was hard, so hard that his knuckles were white again. Tony’s stomach twisted. He had seen that grip before. “I don’t need anyone else to handle it. Not the police. Not you.”

“Why?” Tony asked, exasperated. “Why can’t you just—”

“You don’t even know me,” Peter said. There wasn’t any strength in his voice. Just a quiet kind of weariness that made Tony wonder how often Peter might have said those words. “You’re just someone who lives across the street from me. We’re strangers.”

Tony just stared.

And Peter just turned away, already opening his door. “Thanks for the things before,” he said quietly. “Really. But from now on, when you see me...” He lifted his eyes back up at Tony. “You can go back to your own life. I’ll go back to mine.” He pressed his lips into a tight smile. “Strangers.”

And then Peter closed the door in Tony’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t have to answer the door.

Peter’s hands were shaking by the time he pulled the door shut behind himself. He let out a sharp gasp, and then, letting his head fall back against the door, he let the first tears fall.

\--

Peter didn’t remember when he actually fell asleep, but when he woke up, his whole body hurt as though he had been sleeping for days instead of just a few hours. He opened his eyes to slits of sunlight leaking in through the blinds of his window and, with a soft groan, Peter rolled over on his side, away from the light. He reached halfheartedly for the duvet and yanked it over his head, only to lay under it for a few moments before flinging it back, gasping for air.

Peter kicked away the duvet instead and, twisting around in the lighter sheets, he buried his head into his pillow instead. He lasted only a few moments there too before finally sitting up. He was awake, whether he liked it or not.

Peter reached over for his phone sitting at his nightstand and flipped it up towards him: noon.

Heaving out a sigh, Peter swung his legs over his bed and stood up. That was when he noticed he hadn’t bothered to change out of the clothes he had been wearing yesterday. Peter glanced off to the side, where his jacket was lying across the floor.

And then Peter remembered last night. Or this morning.

He remembered waking up in a bed that wasn’t his—but smelled familiar, smelled nice, actually—but that hadn’t been enough to free Peter from the visitation of old nightmares and memories that made everything feel too small and big at once, made Peter’s chest squeeze like someone was sucking the life out of him. Peter remembered still hearing soft, cruel laughter in his ears, still feeling cold hands wrapped around his wrists, his chin, even when the bedroom door swung open.

Peter remembered Tony—he had been in _Tony’s_ bed—standing in the doorway, his form lit by the hallway light. And then he remembered pushing past Tony in a blur, looking for his jacket: where was his _jacket_? and then running out of the apartment. He remembered Tony following him, and then—

And then feeling pain. A wild, uncontrollable burst of pain as he had shut the door behind himself.

Peter kicked away his jacket.

\--

Peter kept his blinds and curtains shut as he walked around his apartment. He kept his phone held to his ear, waiting for the ringing to stop. He got sent to Ned’s voicemail, and then he got sent to MJ’s voicemail. Peter knew even before calling that he probably would get sent to voicemail: Sundays would mean that Ned was probably still at service, and MJ was probably still with her parents. Still, Peter wished they had picked up, even just for a minute, even just for a second.

Which left May.

And May picked up on the first ring, which made Peter feel both relieved and guilty.

“Hi, Peter,” May said so cheerfully that Peter instantly wanted to leave his apartment, run back to May’s. “Everything okay?”

Peter _really_ wanted to go back to May’s.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, trying to swallow the lump rising up his throat. _Everything’s fine_ , he wanted to say. He could say that right now, if he truly wanted to. _Everything’s fine, May. Just wanted to say hi. Just wanted to hear your voice._

“Peter?” Peter could just see May now, the space between her eyebrows probably crinkling at the too-long silence. Then, softly, May asked, “Is everything okay?”

Peter swallowed. His throat hurt. “No,” he finally said. The word came out too tight, too quietly, and then Peter cupped his hand over his lips to keep himself from letting out the first half-choked sound that was fighting to get out. _Calm. Stay calm. Everything’s fine_.

“No?” May repeated. “Why?”

Peter’s eyes stung. He swallowed again, nearly choking on his own saliva as he dropped his hand from his mouth. “Um,” he tilted his eyes up at the ceiling, blinking frantically as he tried to find the right words. The right explanation. _Everything’s fine_.

Peter suddenly remembered a different time: a similar time, only that time, Peter had been in May’s kitchen. And that time, Peter had only started talking because May had finally had enough, and _Peter_ had finally had enough, and Peter remembered how May had shoved up Peter’s sleeves and started crying at the mottled handprint-shaped bruises. They had both cried that day, and Peter had started whisper-screaming _sorry_ , he was _sorry_ , he wouldn’t ever hide things like this ever again—

And Peter had stayed with May for the rest of his senior year and the summer. And even though _he_ never came around anymore, Peter still couldn’t stop seeing or hearing him in that apartment. Because Peter remembered how they had slept together in his childhood twin bed, and he remembered how they had spent winter breaks and spring breaks lounging on the couch in May’s living room, and he remembered how they had good times, too, before the hurting started.

 _Everything’s fine_.

“Peter?” May repeated. “You still there?”

Peter swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, his voice thick. “I’m still here.”

“Okay,” May said quietly. “So what’s wrong?”

Peter fell back against his bed. He stared up at the ceiling. There was a small crack above him. He half-considered hanging up right then. That would have been easier. _So_ much easier.

 _Everything’s fine_.

Peter closed his eyes and whispered, “He found me.”

There was a dead silence at the other end. At first, Peter thought that May had hung up too, but then Peter heard May’s shaky breath, and he wondered if he had really done the right thing by saying anything at all. His grip on his phone tightened, hard enough for his hand to hurt. “I don’t know how,” Peter whispered. “He just did. I got a photo. I think he was…outside my building.”

Peter wished he hadn’t added that part, because then May’s voice was suddenly sounding past the phone, her words coming out fast: “He _what_? Peter, you need to—”

“I already called the police,” Peter said. More like Tony had made him call the police. “They said that they’ll look into it.” They had also said that Peter should probably move in with relatives or friends, but he decided against that.

“Okay,” May said. “That’s good. That’s really good. I’ll get your room ready.”

“No, May—”

“ _Peter_ ,” May said tightly. “If Beck’s at your door—”

“The police say they’ll handle it,” Peter said, flexing his hand. Trying to get feeling back into it. He had squeezed his phone too hard. “And May…” His voice wobbled slightly, and Peter swallowed. “I can’t come back. You know I can’t.”

“But this is different,” May said desperately. Her voice cracked as she added, “You’d be safer here.”

“I have a key,” Peter replied. He could already feel May about to respond, but Peter added, “I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine.” _Everything’s fine_. He squeezed his phone again, ignoring the dig of pain into his palm. “I just needed to let you know.”

“Now I know,” May replied. “And I want you to come back.” Her voice lowered. “Peter? Come back.”

Peter’s chest hurt. “And then what?” he asked. “If I come back, then what am I going to do?”

“I don’t—” May’s voice had pitched an octave. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Beck’s going to find me anyways,” Peter said. He sat up. “I don’t want him going back to—”

“I’m not scared of _Quentin Beck_ ,” May said sharply.

Peter closed his eyes. “I know,” he said. “But I still can’t come back, May. Not until the police take care of this.”

“You don’t have to do this alone,” May pleaded. “Least of all without your _family_. Peter, you can’t just—”

Peter hung up.

\--

Peter felt like he was underwater for the rest of the day. Everything came to him somewhat muted and faded, everything from the hum of the refrigerator to the flicker of his lights to the tapping of his fingers against his laptop’s keys. Still, he paused every time he heard footsteps in the hallway. He didn’t relax until he heard one of his neighbor’s voices, and then he would go back to working on whatever it was he was working on. He kept his curtains closed for the entire day except once, in the mid-afternoon.

And Peter hadn’t even meant to open the curtain. He had just walked by and noticed a spider crawling up one of his walls. He had scooped it up using a napkin, and he had pushed open his curtain by just the barest amount, just enough to prop open his window and let the spider crawl out. But as Peter moved to close the window again, he found his eyes drifting to the apartment across from him.

Tony was lying on the couch, his eyes closed and head tilted back. He hadn’t changed from his clothes last night either.

Peter shut the window quickly and snapped the curtains shut.

\--

Peter woke up to knocking at his door. He jerked his head up from his desk, his head and neck aching from spending so much time in an awkward position, but he pushed past the pain as the knock came again. Peter’s heartrate sped up as he stood, watching the door warily. He looked down at his phone. Nearly four. He had really slept for another two hours.

Another knock.

Peter’s hand curled into a fist. He could call the police. He _should_ call the police. Right now, he could just—

Then, “Hey, Peter? You in there?”

Peter stopped.

_Tony?_

Peter pulled his curtain back just a little bit, and sure enough, the apartment across his way was empty. Another knock split through the apartment, and Peter let the curtain fall back. Still, he stayed by his desk, staring at the door in a mixture of surprise and resentment at the knock that sounded again.

“Is he even…” Peter heard Tony’s soft, exasperated groan, and then another knock. “Peter?”

He didn’t have to answer the door. They were strangers.

Peter folded his arms over his chest, watching the door. _Go away_.

A loud sigh from the other end of the door. “Listen,” Tony said warily. “You left your mail at my place. I’ve come back to return it.” There was the soft pat of what Peter guessed were envelopes and flyers against Peter’s door. “I don’t know if most of this is junk or not, but I figured you still might need this stuff.” There was a pause and then, “Also, you have a coupon for some pizza place, so that might come in handy.”

Peter stayed at his desk. Tony could slide the mail under his door. Or he could just leave it at his door. Peter didn’t need to respond.

Another loud sigh. “I _could_ leave this here, but I’m pretty sure I’ll get into trouble for littering. I’m not even a resident of this place.” Another soft pat of papers against Peter’s door. “You might not know it, but I’ve got a reputation to uphold. Can’t get accused of littering. That’d be embarrassing.” Another pause. “If I got accused of something, I’d at least want to be accused of something _semi_ -interesting. Maybe breaking into the White House. What about you, kid?”

When Peter didn’t respond, Tony said, “No, you’re right. Breaking into the White House would be a bad idea. There’s probably nothing all _that_ interesting. Maybe breaking into the Pentagon. _That_ would be interesting. You feel like breaking into the Pentagon? Or is that too dangerous?” A beat of silence. “Okay, fine. Maybe breaking into _anything_ is too much. Maybe being accused of anything is too much. So I take it all back. Live a good, civil life.”

Tony cleared his throat. “So that means I can’t get accused of littering.” A pat against Peter’s door. “Could you help me out here?”

Peter puffed out a breath. He let his gaze linger on the door, and then, after a full minute of consideration, he stormed across his apartment. He would open the door for just a minute—just a minute, grab the mail, and close the door. That would be easiest. And Tony probably wouldn’t care. They were _strangers_.

Peter swung open the door, and took a step back to avoid Tony, who would have fallen over if he hadn’t caught himself just on time.

“What are you doing here?” Peter asked.

Tony straightened himself. He had changed, Peter noticed. A simple tee. A pair of jeans. Letters and flyers in hand.

“I…” Tony cleared his throat and stuck the letters out for Peter. “You left these.”

Peter’s mouth went dry. He took the letters. “Thanks,” he said, trying to avoid meeting Tony’s eyes. But it was impossible: Peter could feel Tony’s dark eyes on him, could feel them boring right into his head as he tugged the envelopes out of Tony’s hand. Peter started to close the door, but then Tony cleared his throat.

 _Just a minute_ , Peter had told himself. He would have only just given Tony a minute—

“How’re you doing?”

Peter couldn’t help it—before he could think better of it, he lifted his eyes up to Tony. It occurred to Peter then that Tony looked very, very different when he wasn’t smirking. His dark eyes were serious, searching, and Peter had the feeling if he held his gaze any longer, he would burst into flames. So Peter focused on the space behind Tony’s shoulder as he replied stiffly, “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

There was an awkward silence, and then Peter asked, “How are you?”

“Fine,” Tony replied. He leaned back a little, forcing Peter to shift his gaze away from Tony’s shoulder and up to the space around Tony’s ear instead. “But I’m in a bit of a situation. See, I’ve got this tricky neighbor.” He lifted his eyebrows at Peter, but he couldn’t find the energy to say anything. “He and I got off to a rocky start, but he’s a _mostly_ nice person. Helped me out with housekeeping once, too.” He leaned against the wall, just a little ways from the doorway.

Peter tried not to notice the tickle of Tony’s breath from that space as Tony continued, “But the thing is, he’s in a bit of a situation too.” He cast Peter a sidelong glance. “And he told me something pretty absurd last night.”

Peter’s chest tightened. This was a mistake. “Bye,” Peter said, and he started to pull the door shut, but before he could, Tony’s hand suddenly shot out, just barely grabbing the opposite door handle on time.

Peter froze behind the door, but he didn’t try pulling it any farther, not when Tony said quietly, “Peter. Come on.”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Peter asked roughly, hating how raw his voice sounded. He flicked his eyes up to Tony’s face. That was a mistake. Tony’s brows were furrowed, his face tight with— _pain_ , Peter thought numbly. That was pain on Tony’s face. Which was stupid, because Tony had no reason to feel that way. Peter’s grip on the door handle tightened.

“You told me to forget about you last night,” Tony said. When Peter didn’t say anything, Tony let out a short breath. “And that’s not really working out right now.”

“So then make it work,” Peter said, his voice distant in his own ears. He looked at the crack between his side of the door and Tony’s. He could see Tony’s wrist, the slight tan line from where a watch must have once been.

“Would you?” Tony asked.

Peter flicked his eyes away from Tony’s wrist. “What?”

“Would you?” Tony repeated. “If you saw someone in the same exact position as you are now—would you try to forget?”

Peter looked down at his own hand, still wrapped around the door handle. His knuckles had gone white. _Yes_ , he wanted to say. If he saw himself standing in the middle of the street with a note from a nightmare of a person, he would want to forget. He’d want to forget everything. He _did_ want to forget everything, every single day. That was why he had moved out of May’s. That was why he remained in his own apartment, sequestered away in his own world that would be untouched, unmoved by whatever past he had tried to leave behind.

“You don’t know me,” Peter said at last. His grip slackened on the door handle, and he let the door swing towards him, just enough for Tony to properly see his face. Peter let his hand fall to his side. “Okay?” he said, looking at Tony. “So just…” His throat hurt. “ _Stop_.”

“You know, you keep saying that,” Tony said, his own hand dropping from the door handle. “That I don’t _know_ you. And I don’t, so fine, point on your part.” He crossed his arms. “But here’s the thing, Parker—I bet I know you better than anyone else in this goddamn neighborhood.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“No?” Tony asked, raising his eyebrows.

Peter pressed his lips together. Tony was still watching him, daring him. Peter lifted his chin. “No,” he replied.

Tony let out a soft huff—one that might have been a snort or an exasperated sigh, Peter wasn’t sure. But then Tony stuck out his hand, and Peter looked down at it. He found a broad, calloused palm, sturdy fingers outstretched before him. When Peter lifted up his eyes, Tony sighed. “Envelope,” he said. “Just for a second.”

“Why?”

“Relax, I’m not going to _do_ anything to it,” Tony grumbled, and after a moment of hesitation, Peter passed along an envelope.

In a flash, Tony had whipped out a pen from a back pocket—and Peter wondered briefly if Tony had planned to bring that pen all along—and then, scribbling down something on the envelope, Tony said quietly, “I know what it’s like to think that you’re the only person you need.” He looked up at Peter quickly, then back down at the envelope. “But just in case reality ever hits you…”

He passed back the envelope, and Peter took it numbly. Tony capped his pen, stuck it back in his pocket. “My number,” he said, nodding down at the envelope. “Call if you…” His voice drifted as Peter looked at him. Then, Tony cleared his throat. “Call,” he said. “Or don’t. Up to you.”

With that, he gave Peter a small nod, and then he was turning around, walking towards the stairs, walking away.

Peter left the door open for a moment longer. He looked down at the envelope with the number scribbled in red ink. Tony’s handwriting was messy: really nothing more than a scrawl, but the numbers were still legible.

_Call. Or don’t. Up to you._

Peter swallowed. He ran a thumb over the numbers and, casting Tony’s back one final look, closed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was being an idiot.

He was being an idiot.

He _knew_ he had to be an idiot because there was absolutely _no_ reason he had to go knocking on Peter’s door and return his junk mail. Literally no reason. He could have tossed those envelopes in the trash. He could have just mailed them again himself. Or even better, he could have just asked Peter’s landlord to give back the junk mail.

There was absolutely no reason Tony had to deliver that junk mail for himself.

At least, that was what he kept telling himself as he paced around his apartment. He tossed the stack of envelopes at his coffee table a resentful look.

_Go back to your own life._

Tony sat back down in front of the coffee table, staring down at the envelopes. He didn’t have to _do_ anything. He could leave the envelopes here, toss them out. But Tony found himself glancing out the window, eyes lingering on the closed curtains of a certain apartment.

Tony held his gaze there, waiting for the flicker of a curtain to be drawn back. For some sign that Peter Parker was moving around. Or if Peter had awoken at all. He should still be sleeping—a part of Tony hoped that he was getting some sleep, especially after the shit show of yesterday. This morning.

Tony glanced back down at the envelopes.

He’ll go back to his own life. He _will_ , Tony promised himself as he snatched up the envelopes. But first he was just going to return the stupid junk mail himself. He would leave the junk mail, hopefully make sure that Peter was still breathing, and then—

And then what?

And then he’d leave.

That was what he would do.

He would leave, just as Peter asked him to do.

He just needed to return the junk mail first.

\--

But then Peter actually answered the door, eyes tired and hair distractedly messy, and before Tony could stop himself, he had been asking Peter how he was—and then that other conversation had tumbled out of him, the words jerking out of him quickly in case Peter was going to shut the door again.

“My number,” Tony had said. “Call. Or don’t. Up to you.”

And Peter had taken the scribbled number, and Tony didn’t know why he was still standing there. He was just supposed to return the stupid junk mail. That was all he was supposed to do. 

So he turned around and started to walk for the stairs. He hovered for just a second over the landing of the stairs before he heard Peter’s door click shut.

\--

Tony’s feet dragged on the steps as he walked down. He heard the rest of the apartment come to life around him: a woman’s distant humming, a baby giggling, a man arguing over a phone. Tony went down one set of stairs of the apartment, then down the other, then down the other. His footsteps echoed through the stairwell, bouncing back to Tony in an empty chorus.

He found the exit eventually and shoving through the doors, welcomed the grey sunlight of the day. Tony looked out to his apartment building across the street. He saw some afternoon joggers, a family pushing along a stroller.

Tony pushed out a breath and walked out. He took only a few steps out before turning around and tilting his head back, back to find Peter’s window. Even from the ground, Tony could see that the curtains were still drawn shut.

Tony shoved his hands in his pockets. _Fine_.

He turned back around and promptly stopped short at the person standing directly behind him.

“Sorry—”

“No problem, my friend.” The man before Tony flashed him a smile—actually _flashed_ , lips pulled back to reveal a set of white teeth. And above that, cool blue eyes under a set of dark eyebrows. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Tony replied curtly. He stepped aside and gestured behind himself.

“Thanks,” the man said, and he walked past, his shoulder briefly brushing against Tony’s. But he didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, he didn’t say anything. A flicker of annoyance at that, but when Tony turned around, the man had fully entered the apartment building.

Tony could see the man walking towards the elevators, his hands tucked in his back pockets. The man had his head tilted back, waiting for an elevator to come down.

As though sensing Tony’s eyes, the man turned around to Tony. “Can I help you with something?”

“No,” Tony replied quickly. “No.” He cleared his throat and, gesturing to the elevator, he asked, “You new here?”

The man flashed another smile. “Something like that,” he replied. “Just visiting a friend.” He let out a short laugh. “A surprise visit.” He winked at Tony, sending a chill down his spine. “Took forever to find him.”

Tony stilled.

He managed a brief nod, and then the elevator doors opened in front of the man. The man tilted his head to Tony, and then he disappeared into the elevator.

As soon as the doors closed, Tony was flying back up the stairs. 

_It could be nothing_ , he told himself. He could just be overreacting.

But he still quickened his step.

_It could be nothing._

_Or it could be—_

Tony didn’t allow himself to finish the thought as he flew up and up the stairs, his hand skirting up the railing as he wound himself around the stairwell. He saw some residents coming out from their apartments to shoot Tony a wary, somewhat indignant look as he shot past, but he didn’t care. His ears strained to hear the distant rumble of elevator doors or heavy footsteps, but no such sound came.

Tony finally burst through the third floor, trying to even his breathing as he stumbled down the hallway. The elevator doors hadn’t opened yet, but one glance still told Tony that any second now, the doors would open, and then—

Tony practically threw himself at Peter’s door.

“Peter,” Tony said, trying to keep his voice both loud and yet not loud enough for any other neighbor to hear. “Come on—you gotta open the door— _Peter_ — _hey_ —” Tony nearly toppled forward as the door suddenly swung open, revealing a still disheveled, albeit annoyed looking Peter Parker.

“What are you—”

“Thank God,” Tony only said, and then he heard the elevator doors starting to rumble open. His heart plunging, Tony ducked into the apartment and, ignoring Peter’s sharp protest, he slammed the door behind himself.

“What are you _doing_?” Peter asked, his voice uncharacteristically loud. Under different circumstances, Tony would have been a little impressed, but before he could respond, there was a knock on the door.

Both Tony and Peter froze.

Then Peter started to ask, “What—”

“Were you expecting any visitors?” Tony asked, trying to keep his voice even. Steady.

Peter’s wide eyes were all the answer Tony needed.

“Okay,” Tony said. “Just—hide.”

Tony didn’t know whether to be again impressed or worried at how quickly Peter took his orders. Peter ducked into a different room—a bedroom, Tony figured, and then, after Peter shut the door behind himself, Tony turned back around to the apartment door.

He had no idea what he was doing.

That thought— _he had no idea what he was doing_ —registered only a moment before Tony yanked open the apartment door.

“Hi again,” Tony said, forcing his voice to be light, casual as he registered the man standing before him. The same man from before: with that strange smile and the cool eyes that sent chills up Tony’s spine. “Can I help you with something?”

The man only regarded Tony with that strange smile of his. Something inside Tony clenched. He hoped that Peter would stay inside his bedroom.

“Thought I saw you just a second ago,” the man said at last, and Tony noticed the way the man’s eyes flicked past Tony’s shoulder. Tony moved a little, leaning against the doorframe just so that he could block out the view of whatever the man was looking for. The man’s smile faltered for a second—just for the briefest of seconds, and then they were looking each other up and down with the same wary silence.

Up this close, Tony could now register the finer details of this man. Mid, late-thirties, Tony guessed, with just the faintest of lines and freckles to suggest the age. Hair slicked back just so. That clenching sensation in Tony’s stomach strengthened as the man smiled again.

“I live here,” Tony said at last. “Just forgot something. Wallet,” he added.

“Wouldn’t want to forget that,” the man replied.

 _Stop smiling_ , Tony thought.

“So,” Tony said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Anything I can help you with?”

The man looked down at Tony—down, because this guy was much taller this close. That just added to the unpleasant factor of this encounter, but Tony didn’t dare let anything like discomfort show on his face. He kept his arms folded over his chest, tried to even his breathing from the sprint up the stairs.

“No,” the man said at last. “I must have gotten apartments mixed up.” He paused, and, taking a step back, he asked, “Did you move in here recently?”

“Fairly,” Tony replied, deciding that was just as vague an answer he could give.

“Nice neighborhood, isn’t it?”

“Sure.” Tony glanced pointedly down at his watch. “Now, if there’s anything else—”

“No,” the man repeated. “Sorry for interrupting.” The man tilted his head slightly, his eyes flicking down at Tony’s with that look that sent another unwelcome chill up his spine. “Have a nice day now.”

Tony only grunted a halfhearted response before shutting the door.

He let out a breath, letting his head fall back briefly. He didn’t move from the door until he heard the footsteps from outside die down. Tony let out another breath, trying to calm the stutter in his chest. Whatever that was— _whoever_ that was—

“He’s gone,” Tony said at last. He pushed himself off the door, padding a few steps into the rest of the apartment. The apartment was dim, the curtains at the window still unopened. “You can come out now.”

But Peter didn’t come out.

Tony took another few steps deeper into the apartment, saying louder, “Peter. He’s gone.” He bumped against a desk, and he took a quick step back. He glanced down to find a still-running laptop. Notebooks, filled with red-inked equations, notes. A few eraser stubs. A small ring of brown that told Tony that Peter drank coffee. A stack of yellow and blue sticky notes, the top pages curling a little in a way that suggested that Peter flipped through them often.

And rolling at the edge of the desk was a red pen, its ink nearly down to the last few centimeters of its well. Tony picked up the pen, pushed it to where the notebook was so that it wouldn’t roll off just as the bedroom door swung open.

Tony first registered Peter’s pale face—he seemed to have grown three shades lighter in the last few minutes. And then Tony saw the strange, glassy look in Peter’s eyes that reminded him too much of a different time only with wrists being held and a typed up note.

“Hey.” Tony’s voice sounded too loud in the otherwise quiet apartment.

Peter slowly lifted his eyes up to Tony, both seeing and not quite seeing him. “Why’d you do that?”

Tony didn’t know what answer he was supposed to give. If there was a right answer.

“Do I need a reason?” he asked at last. He gestured towards the door. “Saw him on my way out,” he explained. “Had a hunch. Just wanted to make sure. And…” He didn’t bother finishing the rest of the sentence. Tony knew that they _both_ knew that Tony’s hunch had been right.

They were quiet. Peter’s hands were stuffed in his pockets, but Tony could tell from the shape that they were clenched into fists. But besides that, Peter’s face remained blank, seemingly shuttered to the rest of the world.

“You know him,” Tony said at last. “The person who sent that note. The creep who just showed up at the door—that was him.” At Peter’s pained silence, Tony suddenly wished he had just torn after that man in the first place. Why hadn’t he done that? He could have ended this bullshit right then and there. At least Tony remembered the creep’s face—he could tell the police, and if Peter knew this person, then there had to be some more identification to get a restraining order in place—

“Right,” Tony said, letting out a breath. “First things first. We call the police, get a restraining order. And then—”

“No.”

Tony stopped as Peter pushed past him, back to his desk. As though nothing had happened. As though someone hadn’t just tracked down his apartment. Tony stared down at Peter as he logged onto his laptop, flipped through his notebook with trembling hands.

“What do you mean, _no_?” Tony asked. He waited for Peter to respond, but he only kept his head tilted towards his notebook. He absentmindedly reached across his desk for the pen that Tony had set down. Tony watched Peter uncap the pen, scribble something down—or try to scribble something down, but Tony saw the mess of weak, red ink.

And then Peter loosed a breath, his pen still clutched in his hand. Peter suddenly dug the pen into the notebook, the red ink bright against the white paper. Tony eyed Peter’s whitening knuckles, heard the sudden, shaky intake of a breath, and then Tony was walking around the desk so he was standing a little ways from Peter’s side.

 _Here we go_.

Tony tugged the notebook out from under Peter’s hand, careful not to touch Peter himself. He still remembered the sharp tug of Peter’s wrists away from him. So he didn’t bother with the pen still clutched in Peter’s hand. But Tony closed the notebook, pushed it to the corner of the desk, right next to a picture frame. Tony tried not to let his gaze linger, but he couldn’t help it—he saw Peter. Younger Peter, college Peter. Curly hair, bright eyes, leaning against an older woman with brown hair and round glasses. They were standing on the docks of the pond at Boston Common, Tony realized.

Tony glanced back to find Peter looking at the photo too, his lips pressed together in a hard line.

Tony cleared his throat. “Your…”

“Aunt,” Peter said. He sounded tired.

“Does she live nearby?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re trying to see if I can stay with her,” Peter said. “Which I’m not.”

“Why not?” Tony asked, the words firing out of him faster than he could consider them. At Peter’s wary look, Tony added, “That person had a feeling you live here. That’s why he came. And unless we’re suddenly about to become roommates, I don’t think he’s going to buy the fact that I live here instead of you.” He let out a frustrated breath. Tony willed himself to remain patient—which alone was an impossible task, but meeting Peter’s gaze, Tony decided that _what the hell, they were this far anyways._

“Listen,” he said at last. “You were right before. I don’t know you.” The words felt strange in Tony’s mouth. They didn’t seem to fit, not when Tony still remembered wrists jerking back, then a wedding. Peter’s head resting against his shoulder on the taxi drive home. Slipping Peter into bed, and then following him out at three in the morning.

“But anyone with half a heart—surprise, that includes me—would be worried.” Tony tried to keep his tone flat, matter-of-fact, but he couldn’t help but let his voice dip a little towards the end, especially when Peter turned his eyes away.

“Listen,” Tony said again, quietly. “I don’t expect you to tell me everything. You want to keep private and clammed up, fine.” Peter’s shoulders bunched a little at that, though Tony couldn’t tell which part of his words had caused that reaction. “I mean it.”

Peter flicked his eyes back up to Tony. “But.”

“ _But_ ,” Tony said, “I still don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay here. Actually, I don’t even _think_ it’s a good idea for you to stay here. I _know_ it’s not a good idea for you to stay here.”

At that, Peter’s eyes flashed. He stood up, his chair scraping back against the floor. Tony blinked. He hadn’t expected that sudden movement, not now. But Peter stood in front of him, his brows furrowed, eyes intense.

“Know?” Peter repeated. His voice was low. “What could you _know_ , Tony?”

Wrong choice of words. Tony was getting that now.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Tony said at last. “You’re right. I don’t know what you’re going through.”

“So then why are you still _here_?”

“I told you,” Tony said. “I’m worried. Anyone would be,” he added unnecessarily. He didn’t need to add that. He shouldn’t have added that, and Tony regretted adding that. Words. He needed to use his words correctly. Properly. _Get it together, Stark._

“I’m worried,” Tony repeated. “About this. About you.”

Fine, maybe he hadn’t meant to add that either, but not in the way that he hadn’t meant to say the words before. Because unlike the last few times, those words— _I’m worried about you_ —didn’t feel strange. Out of everything he had said that day, from this morning to this hour to this exact second, _those_ words— _I’m worried about you_ —felt the most natural.

But those words were out now.

They were silent as the meaning slowly sunk in between the two of them. Peter’s eyes flickered with something Tony couldn’t place.

Those words were out now.

Then Peter said quietly, “I can’t go back to my aunt’s.”

“Why?”

“Complicated.”

Okay, fine. Tony _did_ say that Peter didn’t have to tell him everything.

“Friends?”

“Also…complicated.”

“Okay.” Tony let out a breath. “Okay,” he repeated. Then, surveying the apartment, he said, “You know I have a spare room.”

There was another silence.

“Just while you figure out your next steps,” Tony said, keeping his eyes to the curtained window. “Get things in order. Do what you have to, et cetera. Up to you.”

\--

Tony helped Peter pack a small suitcase.

They were quiet the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tony—” The name came out of Peter’s lips strangled.

Tony hesitated, hand on the doorknob. He turned to Peter, and Peter looked back up at him. He stayed leaning against the wall, suitcase in hand, jacket in the other. And even though Peter had shivered as soon as he stepped outside of his apartment building, he hadn’t bothered putting it on. His arms felt too heavy to wear his jacket, too heavy to carry the suitcase with himself. But when Tony had offered to carry Peter’s suitcase, he had refused—even if an overwhelmingly strong part of him just wanted to drop the suitcase, drop the jacket, drop to his knees and just sleep for an eternity.

So now Peter just looked at Tony. “What?” he asked.

Tony blinked. “Nothing,” he said, turning back around to the door. He pushed it open and gestured inside. “After you.”

Peter pushed himself off the wall. His steps were heavy too. He tried to walk, to _step_ , but each movement was an effort. Peter padded into the center of the apartment, right to the living room. He found himself turning to the window, and he saw his own window across, with its curtains still drawn tightly closed.

“You want anything?”

Peter turned around to find Tony hovering by the entrance to the hallway. He tilted his head towards the kitchen. “Water, soda…food?”

“I’m fine,” Peter replied. He adjusted his grip on his suitcase and jacket.

Tony’s eyes dropped down to Peter’s hands. “Right,” he said, clapping his hands against his pant legs. “You know where the spare room is. You could unpack some of your stuff. Or not,” he added. “Whenever you feel like it. But if you want to put your stuff down…” His voice drifted, the silence filling the apartment too quickly.

Peter re-adjusted his grip again. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll just…” He found that he couldn’t bring himself to create whole sentences either. He just nodded and walked down the living room to the back of the apartment, where the two bedrooms were.

Peter found the spare bedroom’s door slightly ajar, sheets still slightly rumpled from when Peter had slept in them last. He paused in the doorway, taking in the rest of the bedroom. A nightstand, a closet. An armchair, a stack of what looked like old encyclopedias sitting next to it. He smelled something musty mingled with air freshener.

Peter heard Tony’s footsteps, and he stepped into the bedroom just as Tony said, “I know it’s small, and it’s a little dusty in here—we can get it cleaned up later today if you’re up for it.”

“It’s okay,” Peter replied. He risked a glance back at Tony, turned back around to the bed. He felt Tony step into the bedroom behind him, and then Tony walked around him so that he was in Peter’s field of vision. Tony looked down at the bed and its rumpled sheets.

“Right,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t think about straightening that either.”

 _You didn’t expect to invite me over_ , Peter wanted to point out. Correct. But he couldn’t find the energy to make out those words. He settled for a shrug instead and set the suitcase down by the nightstand. As he did so, Tony walked around the bed and tugged halfheartedly at the covers, smoothing out the lines of the bed.

“There,” Tony said, standing up. “One neat thing in this bedroom.”

“It’s fine,” Peter said. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wasn’t raised by animals,” Tony only replied. He walked back around to the foot of the bed and drummed his hands against his legs again. Two seconds passed, then five, then ten. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “Do whatever you have to. Take a nap, shower—the bathroom’s down the hall if you need it.”

Peter nodded.

Tony nodded back.

“Right,” Tony said again. He started for the door and then, pausing, he added, “And we can call the police too. Sooner the better, right?”

Peter’s heart sank. He didn’t feel like calling the police—not now, not ever—but he just nodded again. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m just going to need a minute.”

Relief flickered across Tony’s face. Peter thought it was relief, anyways. If the relaxation on Tony’s face counted for relief, anyways. “Yeah,” Tony said. “All the time you need.” His eyes swept around the room another time, and then, with another little nod to Peter, he walked out of the room.

Peter waited until Tony was out of the hallway before he closed the door.

And then he turned back around to the small room and let out his first breath.

He moved towards his suitcase and sat down on the hardwood floor. He dragged open the zippers of his case and flipped open the top. He peered down at the clothes he had bothered bringing, his laptop, chargers. A few sweaters, a few rolls of socks and underwear.

Peter picked up his first shirt and folded it into an even smaller square than it already had been. He turned his head to the closed closet doors and suddenly, it seemed too far away, even from where Peter was sitting. The very idea of standing back up and dragging open the closet door seemed too much at once.

Peter dropped his shirt back into his suitcase. Stared back down at the rest of his clothes, his belongings that he had bothered to bring. There suddenly seemed too many, even though he knew that he hadn’t brought many things at all.

But his head still spun, and he was suddenly so tired. The floorboards were warm underneath him, despite the fact that there weren’t any windows in this bedroom—no real light source except for the lamp sitting at the nightstand. But the floorboards were still warm, a steady heat that semi-warmed the chill in Peter’s skin since walking out of his apartment.

Peter leaned his head back against the bedframe. His head found the edge of the mattress, and closing his eyes, he let himself fall into a dreamless sleep.

\--

Peter woke up to a quiet knocking on the door. For a second, Peter could only blink at his surroundings, confused at where he was, why his butt was so sore, and why his neck ached so badly, but then the knocking sounded again, and everything came rushing back. Being alone in his apartment. And then Tony—Tony, shoving through the door and telling him to hide, and then hearing _his_ voice through the door—

“Peter?”

Peter swallowed back the bile in his throat and shoved himself up to his feet. He wasn’t in his apartment anymore. He was in this other room at Tony’s place.

Peter staggered over to the door and swung it open.

Tony held up his phone. “I was thinking about ordering some food,” he said. “In case you…” His voice drifted as his eyes flicked over Peter’s face. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” Peter said, pushing past the doorway. “Um. Food’s fine,” he said. He pointed down the hall. “Bathroom, right?”

Tony nodded.

“Thanks.” Peter managed to walk into the bathroom. He had just barely closed the door behind himself before he suddenly lurched for the toilet, emptying what little he already had in his stomach. His eyes and throat burned as another wave of nausea roiled over him. Peter lurched forward again, his hands blindly reaching for the toilet handle. He heard the distant splash of vomit against the basin, and then the bathroom door opened.

Peter’s face burned as he heard a quiet swear. A mess, that was what he was—a mess, and Tony was right there—

But Peter couldn’t even tell Tony to get out, because he was too busy being hunched over the toilet. He squeezed his eyes shut, felt something wet slide down the side of his face—although whether it was sweat or tears, he couldn’t tell.

“Easy,” Tony said, and suddenly he was right next to Peter. A hand on his shoulder. That was Tony’s hand. Steadying him. “Breathe, Peter.”

Peter sucked in a breath, only to have it lodged in the back of his throat. He coughed instead, and the last of whatever was left in him hit the basin of the toilet. More heat rushed up Peter’s face, the back of his neck as he registered the sound and the smell.

Tony stood up. Peter heard running water, and then a glass appeared in front of him.

“Small sips,” Tony said, sitting back down next to Peter. “Or do you want to brush your teeth first?”

Peter swallowed and winced. He still tasted the vomit in his mouth. He managed to look at Tony, and then Tony set the glass down on the floor. “Where is it?” he only asked.

“Front pocket of the case,” Peter rasped.

“Be back in a second.” And with that, Tony left the bathroom.

In the meantime, Peter flushed down the vomit in the toilet. He tried to get up and failed, slamming back into the ground. His head spun, and for a second, Peter could only sit by the toilet, trying to navigate the pounding behind his eyes until Tony came back with the toothbrush.

“Thanks,” Peter managed.

“You’re welcome.” Tony handed Peter the toothpaste. “Wanna get up?”

Peter took that as his sign to try again. He pushed himself off the ground and swayed, just barely catching himself by the edge of the sink.

“Here,” Tony said, and Peter felt steady hands guide his shoulders.

Peter’s face warmed impossibly as he managed a small nod at Tony. He brushed his teeth, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He counted down the seconds, and then, when he was done, he spat in the sink and washed out the residue. All the while, Peter saw Tony somewhere at the back of the bathroom, pointedly not making eye-contact or hovering any closer than he had to. Peter wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not about that.

“Here,” Tony repeated, and a moment later, he had set the water glass next to Peter. “It’ll probably taste less terrible now.”

“Thanks,” Peter said again, relieved to find that his voice was clearer, just a bit stronger.

Tony just shrugged. Peter drank down the glass in small sips as Tony had suggested, and when he was done, he set the glass back down on the sink. For a while, neither of them spoke. Peter rubbed his hand over his mouth, too aware of the slight drip of the faucet against the sink. He reached over and cranked the water completely off.

“Your stomach feeling better?” Tony asked at last.

Peter managed a nod.

“Think you can manage down some food?”

Peter’s stomach roiled at the thought. He shook his head.

“Okay, fair.” Tony looked over at the toilet. “Do you think you might…”

“No,” Peter said quickly. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, cast his eyes downward. “I…I’ve got it under control.”

“Do you?”

Peter flicked his eyes up to Tony.

Tony only took his phone out of his pocket. He turned it over in his hands a few times, saying, “I’ve thought about calling the police once or twice while you were asleep. But like I said before, that’s your call.”

“I don’t need to call the police.”

“Why?”

Peter’s cheeks warmed. “I just don’t,” he replied, and he walked past Tony in the doorway. He walked towards the spare room and, ignoring the fact that Tony had followed him inside, he crouched down on the floor and flipped open his suitcase. He noticed that Tony had zipped the front pocket back up again.

Peter picked up a shirt and set it on his lap. He unfolded it and took out another shirt, did the same.

“From the way I see it,” Tony said from somewhere behind Peter, “some creep has been sending you messages and now knows where you live. Some creep that _you_ know. You need to get a restraining order or _something_ —”

“Restraining orders don’t do anything,” Peter replied. He hadn’t meant to say that. He picked up another shirt, its edges blurring briefly. “Not to people like him. He knows his way around.”

A silence.

And then, “Are you telling me that this guy is _in_ with the police?”

Peter would have laughed if he had the energy. _In with the police_ —that sounded like something out of a movie, only Peter never asked to be in a movie. “No,” he replied, standing up. He picked one of the hangers from inside the closet and stuck on a shirt. He shoved it onto the bar, ignoring the way the hangers clattered together in protest. “I’m saying that the police don’t care about restraining orders, period.”

He settled back on the ground and tugged out another shirt. He did that for some time: walking back and forth between his suitcase and the closet, feeling Tony’s eyes on him all the while.

“What do you mean?” Tony asked at last.

“I mean,” Peter said, keeping his voice even, “the police don’t care about people like him.” He shoved another shirt into the closet, the hangers rattling again. “Did you know that twenty to forty percent of families with police officers report some case of domestic abuse?” He dragged out a pair of pants and slung it over a hanger.

Tony was silent as Peter continued, “One of my aunt’s friends used to get into trouble with her husband a lot. The police would laugh at her whenever she called.” He yanked at the jeans over the hanger. The slight groan of the hanger and the fabric got Peter to drop his hand to his side. “My aunt was able to get her to a shelter in the end, and she eventually managed to get a divorce. Took forever, though.”

Peter turned back around to his suitcase and bent down, dragging out another pair of pants. After this, all that was left were his socks and some underwear, so he shut the suitcase with a loud _thump_ ing sound. He turned back around to the closet and risked his first glance at Tony.

And he wished he hadn’t.

He looked away from Tony’s pained eyes, the slightly parted lips, and he focused on finding another hanger for his last pair of pants.

“Peter—”

“So all I need to do is find another place,” Peter said. He pushed past his shirts and the jeans. He couldn’t find another hanger. He shoved past the bar again, his hands burning at the sudden friction. Hanger, where was the hanger—

Peter heard footsteps, and then Tony was at his side, brushing his hand to the back of the bar. Tony silently pushed the hanger towards Peter, and he took it.

Without a word of thanks, Peter slung his pants over the hanger and re-adjusted it on the bar. And after he had done that, Peter dropped his hand back to his side and stared without seeing the arrangement of his clothes dangling from the hangers.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said at last, his voice quiet in the already-quiet room.

“You didn’t know,” Peter replied numbly. _You shouldn’t have known._

Tony turned towards Peter. “Do you have a place in mind?” he asked.

_No._

“Yeah,” Peter replied, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Liar.”

Peter met Tony’s gaze. Tony didn’t blink.

“Why do you care?” Peter asked tiredly. He was so tired. He leaned back against the side of the closet door, his head bumping against the smooth wood. “You didn’t even want me as a neighbor. As someone living across from you.”

“That’s not true.”

“You call me _kid_ all the time.”

“Because you _are_ a kid.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“And I’m fifty-four. You’re a kid.”

Peter closed his eyes. “Is there a point?” he asked.

“I care, that’s the point.”

Peter opened his eyes. He found the ceiling.

“You shouldn’t.”

A frustrated sound. “You keep saying that,” Tony said. “And funny, I’m still here. Just so you know.”

Peter slid his head away from the closet to look at Tony. “So is that it?” he asked at last. “You’re doing this because I’m a kid?” The words tasted bitter in Peter’s mouth, and he managed a small step towards Tony. Something in him was trembling, shaking, cracking apart, but Peter didn’t care as he asked, “Do you get a kick out of it? Helping this poor little kid, all alone in this neighborhood?” He hated himself for asking those things, hated himself even more for the cold look that settled over Tony’s face.

“Peter. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but—”

“Did you just want to feel needed?” Peter asked, those words burning up Peter’s throat, past his lips. “After all of your friends were getting married and leaving—did you need someone to _need_ you? _Did_ you?”

“Stop it.”

“Well?” Peter asked. “That’s why you invited me to the wedding, right? To show everyone that someone still _needed you_.” He dropped his gaze from Tony’s eyes to down the planes of his face, his neck. “Did you like that feeling? Of having this _kid_ need your—”

“I’m going to stop you right here.” Tony’s hand came up between Peter and himself. And Peter looked back up at Tony’s face and found a deep, dark pain there. Too far—Peter had stepped too far, and the full realization of his own words hit Peter then, and he staggered a half-step back.

“Sorry,” Peter said hoarsely. “I’m—” He swallowed. “I didn’t mean—” He forced himself to find Tony’s eyes again and hated himself all the more for it, especially as Tony turned away. Peter saw the hurt flash across the man’s face, and then it was gone.

And then Tony took in a shuddering breath, and that was enough for Peter to want to break right there, beg for forgiveness—he was _sorry, so sorry, he didn’t mean_ —

“You know,” Tony said at last, “I didn’t really expect that.” He blinked once, twice. “Not from you.” He wasn’t looking at Peter still. “I think…” His voice drifted briefly. “I think I’m going to order food. And leave you to the rest of your…” He gestured vaguely at the suitcase. “Unpacking.”

And then Tony pushed himself away from the closet and was walking towards the door.

“Tony—” The name came out of Peter’s lips strangled.

And Tony halted, his hand still reaching for the door handle. He turned around slightly.

Peter swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said.

For a moment, Tony didn’t speak.

“Just so you know,” he said at last, “I don’t feel…any of what you said. But I’m sorry that I made you feel that way.”

And then he left.

Peter only stared at where Tony had been seconds ago and slowly sank down to the ground, his head bumping once more against the closet door. The burning sensation in his throat had returned, had somehow wound itself behind his eyes.

A shuddered breath left Peter’s lips, and he brought a hand over his mouth to muffle the cry already tearing out of him. Stupid. That had been so _stupid_ —

Peter wanted to run out of the room and grab Tony back, apologize again, explain _everything_ —

But he stayed by the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I didn't expect to go in that direction either, but here we are. But something I've learned through my own experiences/studies about trauma is that people so often self-sabotage in order to protect themselves. 
> 
> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You first,” Peter said quietly. “I interrupted you anyways.”

Tony’s head was spinning as he left Peter’s room. His chest felt too tight, his heart beating too fast and too loudly in his ears as he made it to his own room. He closed the door behind himself and for a moment, just kept his hands wrapped around the door handle, as though he might just walk back out a minute later.

But Tony wasn’t going to walk back out.

He let his hands slip from the door handle, let them settle at his sides.

He heard Peter’s voice again. Saw Peter’s eyes flick up to his face, down his neck, down—

And Tony had stopped him, right before Peter could say anything that he knew would be regretted seconds later. And he knew that Peter regretted everything he said anyways. He had seen it in the flicker of Peter’s eyes, heard it in the slight tremble in Peter’s voice.

He didn’t mean it. Tony knew that. Peter didn’t mean anything he said—not completely. But Tony heard Peter’s words again, saw the way Peter looked at him in those brief seconds, and Tony’s body turned cold.

Tony’s mind drifted to the wedding—to a courtyard, to where Steve had implied something similar.

Tony felt sick.

 _God_ , did Peter think—

Then Tony thought of the way Peter had flinched at every touch, backed away. He thought of that creep who had found Peter. He was older—at least a decade older than Peter, maybe a little more. Tony saw the picture of Peter running through Boston Commons, and then he pictured that version of Peter with that creep who had been standing outside the door. An older guy who—what? Charmed Peter, probably touched Peter.

Tony’s stomach twisted at the thought. At what that creep must have done to make Peter flinch as badly as he did. At what that creep must have done to make Peter hide in his apartment and refuse to come out.

 _God_ , Tony had asked Peter if he had a boyfriend.

But he hadn’t meant it like _that_ —

But what he meant didn’t matter, because if Peter actually thought that Tony—

Tony’s stomach twisted again.

He pushed himself off the door, one hand fumbling for his phone. He told Peter he was going to order food. So he was going to order food. Hopefully something that would settle in Peter’s stomach, Tony decided after remembering the vomit. And maybe something that would settle in Tony’s own stomach, too, because right now—

Tony made the call. The person taking the order had to ask Tony three times over the course of the call if he was still there.

“Sorry,” Tony said towards the end of the call. The person on the other end only grunted something before hanging up, and Tony dropped his phone against his bed. And then, with a half-sigh, half-groan, he sank back against the mattress, lifting his hands to his face.

He stayed there for some time, too aware that Peter was in the room next door.

He saw the shock and hurt flickering across Peter’s face again, the regret and the shame as Peter had stumbled back after those words were said. It had hurt to look too long at him. Tony had felt like if he looked too long, he would find something that he didn’t want to see.

Tony dropped his hands from his face.

Fucking hell.

Tony sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. His head still spun, and his chest still felt too tight, but he forced himself to breathe. Think. _Think, Stark._

Because Peter had said something else. Something before…all of those things that made the air too thin for Tony to breathe. Peter had mentioned the police, the abuse. Restraining orders wouldn’t help. The police wouldn’t help.

The statistics Peter had mentioned made sense to Tony. He had heard those statistics before, once while he was talking to Natasha. Tony had off-handedly joked that she would probably make a good cop, given her own uncanny abilities in combat and damage control, but Natasha had looked Tony dead in the eye and said, “There are no good cops.”

And Tony had gone to the police anyways. That had been his first instinct when seeing the typed-up note in front of him. He had handed his phone to Peter and basically _ordered_ him to call.

An asshole. He had been an asshole.

The next time Tony saw Peter, he would apologize. And they would figure something out. Peter needed a place, and Tony would help him find a place, if that’s what he—

If Peter wanted Tony to help, anyways.

Tony closed his eyes.

 _Why do you care?_ Peter had asked.

Tony wished he had an answer. But whenever he tried to think of something, he came up blank. Mostly blank. He still remembered the messy head of curls and the wide doe eyes before the snap of a curtain, and Tony remembered how he had smirked then. And then Steve being the one to invite Peter to the apartment—

Peter politely nodding to whatever Pepper and Natasha had been telling him, Peter quietly packing up leftovers. How long had it been since Peter had run away from that creep? Had it just been a few weeks? A few months?

Tony fell back against the bed, bringing his hands up to his face again.

 _Why do you care?_ Peter’s voice came whispering back.

Tony wished he had an answer.

\--

Tony paced in front of Peter’s door—he tried not to linger too much on how he had already thought of the spare room next to his as _Peter’s_ —for three minutes before working up the courage to knock. A soft knock, one that Tony knew from the moment his knuckles left the door that he had been too quiet. But at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to knock any louder. Knocking any louder would mean attitude, and attitude wasn’t exactly something Tony had the energy to display right now—that was a new one.

But when Peter didn’t answer, Tony knocked again. Another faint brush of knuckles against wood.

“Peter?” Tony said at last, looking down at the ground. “Just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be back in a second. Delivery guy just stopped in front of the building.” He kept his eyes on the ground, but he strained to hear for something on the other side of the door: footsteps, a mumble, anything.

All he got was silence.

Fair enough.

“Okay,” Tony said, nodding down at the ground. “I’ll be back in a second.”

And then he turned around, walking through the sitting room and the kitchen. He picked up his jacket and shoved on his shoes. He pocketed his phone, picked up his keys. He set his hand on the doorknob, shifted his feet in his shoes again.

Peter didn’t come out of the room.

Fair enough.

Tony swung open the door and left.

\--

The transaction was done quickly—the delivery driver wished Tony a good night before racing off. Tony had stood in front of the apartment building for a few minutes, keeping hold of the large paper bag. He had taken a few steps forward and found Peter’s apartment building, and he had tilted his head all the way back to look up at Peter’s window. Still curtained. Tony wasn’t sure why he would assume otherwise.

Then Tony turned back around and looked to where his window was. His curtains were still drawn back, lights still on.

And then Tony had readjusted his grip on the paper bag and walked back inside.

He took the elevator, careful not to jostle the contents in the bag. He had ordered soup, thinking about Peter’s stomach. And pasta, just in case the soup wasn’t enough.

The elevator doors opened in front of Tony, and for a disorienting second, he was about to let the doors close in front of him before he realized that this was his floor. He stepped forward quickly, the elevator doors sliding back open abruptly for him.

With that, Tony walked through the hallway until he found his door. He jostled the key into the lock and pushed the door open, keeping one hand still latched over the bag.

“I’m back,” Tony called, although not nearly loud enough. He shucked off his shoes and kicked the door behind himself. “I wasn’t exactly sure what you liked, so I took a guess.” He set the bag down on the kitchen counter, taking out the containers. “At least, I got stuff that might be easier on your stomach.” Tony winced as he took out a particularly hot container.

He turned to the door, but Peter didn’t come out.

Tony’s chest tightened.

He could walk into his own room and do the same. Shut out what happened earlier that night with a few toss and turns and eventual sleep. Shut out the background noise and the thoughts tugging at the back of his head, those thoughts that sounded oddly like Peter’s voice when he had asked Tony if he liked the idea of a kid needing his—

Tony pushed himself away from the kitchen counter and crossed the apartment in three, four strides.

Peter could say what he wanted. But he had to at least eat first.

Tony knocked on the door, this time louder than the attempts of before. “Peter?” he called. “Is it okay to come in?”

No answer.

Tony sighed, setting his forehead against the door. “Look,” he said. “We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.” He meant that much. “But you could at least eat something. We can eat in silence, if that’s what you want. Or you can just take the food and go. That’s fine too.” He found that he meant all that, too.

“That’s it,” Tony said at last, picking his forehead off the door. He took a step away, leaning back against the opposite wall. “All I gotta say.”

He waited one second. Two, three, four.

Tony was ready to think that Peter must have fallen asleep or something when the door opened.

Tony straightened. He swallowed. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Tony noticed the slight unruliness of Peter’s hair, the rumple in his clothes—as though he had actually been sleeping.

“Did I wake you?” Tony asked at last.

“I—no,” Peter said, looking down at himself. He straightened his shirt. “I woke up a few minutes ago. Before you…” His voice drifted, his hands dipping into his pockets.

“Right,” Tony replied. He didn’t know where to look. At Peter’s curls or his small face or his rumpled shirt or his socked feet. He settled for the spot behind Peter’s shoulder instead. “I got dinner.” He gestured halfheartedly behind himself. “Do you think you can…?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied, nodding down at the ground. “Thanks.”

Tony wasn’t sure if _you’re welcome_ was the right answer. He settled for a shrug, and when he remembered that Peter wasn’t looking at him, he said, “Just let me know if it’s not enough.” And then they walked to the kitchen together. Tony pushed the containers onto the table, watching Peter from the corner of his eye.

Peter only blinked around his surroundings, his eyes getting adjusted to the fluorescent lights.

“How are you feeling?” Tony asked, passing Peter a spoon and a fork.

“Okay,” Peter replied, sitting down.

Tony slid into the chair across from him, popping open his own container. He wiped away the condensation that flecked his side of the table. “Good,” he managed to say. “That’s…good.” He didn’t know what else to say, so he picked up his fork and poked at his food.

Tony Stark, not knowing what to say here—classic. Pepper and Steve were always better at the comforting stuff. At the _open-people-up-in-a-non-business-setting_ kind of stuff. Tony was good at the business stuff, and he was good at the flirting stuff. Sometimes he could do both at the same time.

But _this_ —

Tony didn’t taste the food as he chewed and swallowed.

The only sounds in the kitchen were the distant clinks of utensils against the containers. The occasional shuffle of the chair. A swallow.

Finally—

“Peter—”

“Tony—”

They both stopped.

Looked up.

Looked back down.

Looked back up.

“You first,” Peter said quietly. “I interrupted you anyways.”

“We spoke at the same time.”

Peter shrugged. “You first,” he repeated.

Tony set his spoon down. He forced himself to directly meet Peter’s eyes: those deep brown eyes that seemed too big and too old for the rest of his face. Tony noticed the slight clench in Peter’s shoulders, his jaw, and Tony wondered what exactly Peter thought he was going to say. Wondered if Peter had been in a setting like this before, dreading the worst of words.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said at last. “About pushing for the police. You were uncomfortable with it, and I pushed.” He set his hands down, fiddling with the stem of his spoon. He stopped fiddling with it a second later, deciding that the movement was too distracting. He forced himself to meet Peter’s eyes again. “If getting the police involved is something that you don’t want or need, then we won’t involve the police.”

Tony was met with a silence.

Peter blinked twice before asking faintly, “We?”

“We,” Tony repeated. “You don’t want to go to your aunt’s, and you said your situation with your friends was complicated…” He started to reach up to run a hand through his hair and stopped, dropping his hand instead to his lap. “The room over there is still yours if you want it.”

Then, hurriedly, Tony added, “Completely free of charge. And…anything else. It’s just a room. Nothing transactional.” The fact that Tony had to add those words alone made something inside of him twist and squirm, but he had to say it—because from the way Peter had looked at him just earlier—

“I know,” Peter said quietly. He chewed down on his bottom lip, and even though Tony couldn’t see his hands, he could imagine Peter’s hands clenching, sticking into his pockets like he always did. “Tony, about what I said earlier…” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Tony let himself hold Peter’s gaze for three seconds before dropping his own eyes back down to the table. “I know,” he replied, not trusting to get his voice any louder than a murmur. “I knew you didn’t…” He cleared his throat and lifted his head. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Peter said. “I…said those things and—” He stopped. “I didn’t mean any of it. Which I know doesn’t matter because I still _said_ it, and it wasn’t true. At all.”

Tony looked up at Peter.

Peter looked back at him, jaw set and gaze steady.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said again. He bowed his head, his voice cracking—and something in Tony with it—as he said, “I shouldn’t have—I really didn’t—”

And then Tony found himself moving away from his side of the table. He stood a little ways from Peter, hesitating, and then he pulled out the chair next to him.

“Peter,” Tony said slowly. “Hey—look at me.”

Peter turned, his brows knit tightly together. There was guilt—so much guilt, the kind of guilt that Tony wished he could brush away or take himself. And Tony wished he could take that guilt in that moment, and he was surprised to find how sincere he was with that.

“I know,” Tony said quietly. “Okay? So you don’t need to apologize anymore.”

Peter started to dip his head, but Tony said, “I mean it.”

For a while, they didn’t say anything.

And then Peter said quietly, “You should hate me. What I said—”

“I don’t,” Tony replied. “Hate you.”

Peter lifted his head.

“I promise,” Tony said, his lips twitching briefly—an attempt to lighten the mood, but Peter didn’t smile back. “I _promise_. Okay?”

He searched Peter’s face for confirmation—for anything.

And then Peter nodded.

A small nod.

Tony figured that was enough.

\--

They threw out the containers after they were finished. The next few minutes were an awkward dance of Tony walking around Peter, Peter walking around Tony in the kitchen. Halfhearted gestures eventually gave way to exchanged murmurs (“does this go…?” “yeah, right there”), and then they were standing in the kitchen with nothing between them except the empty table.

Finally, Tony asked, “Are you done packing?”

“Yeah.”

“If you need any more hangers…”

“I don’t need any hangers, thanks.”

“No problem.”

See, this was why Pepper and Steve were always the ones taking over small talk.

“If you want to watch something…” Tony gestured towards the television in the living room.

Peter turned around briefly, turned back around to Tony. “I’m okay,” he said. “I might just get some work done.”

Tony nodded.

Peter nodded back.

And then Tony said, “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They stood in the kitchen for a heartbeat longer, and then Peter was turning around, heading back for his room. Tony waited until he heard the soft click of the door before sinking back down to the table. He had just dropped his head against the table when he heard the door open again, and Tony shot up out of his seat as Peter came out with his laptop and a notebook.

“Is it…” Peter’s voice drifted as his eyes shifted between the kitchen and the living room. “Okay if I work here?”

Tony took a second to remember how to use his voice.

“Yeah,” he said. “Work wherever you want.”

“Okay,” Peter said, and he slid into the seat across from Tony. He started up the laptop, his eyes not moving from the screen. Tony heard the sticky taps of Peter typing across the keyboard, a few quiet clicks.

“What do you do?” Tony asked at last. “I don’t think you ever told me.”

At first, Tony wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have bothered asking, not with the small silence that filled the space afterward.

But then Peter lifted his eyes over the laptop and replied, “I…kind of do consulting stuff.” He lifted a shoulder. “People send in designs for stuff, and I just make suggestions. Fix them up. Tech stuff.”

Tony figured it would have to be related to tech, with Peter being a graduate from MIT. But Tony decided not to let Peter know that he had actually searched all of that up.

So Tony asked, “You like it?”

Peter shrugged again. “I can work remotely,” he said. “It’s not that bad.”

Remote work. Right.

“Doesn’t sound bad at all,” Tony said.

Peter lifted his shoulders a third time. “Is it okay if I just…”

“Yeah,” Tony said quickly. “Lips closed. Don’t mind me.” He pulled out his phone, scrolled through emails that he probably needed to respond to, anyways.

So they stayed at the kitchen table like that.

\--

Tony didn’t remember falling asleep.

But apparently he had, because when he woke up, there was a blanket over his shoulders that he knew hadn’t been his own doing.

Tony lifted his head, wincing as he worked to undo the crick in his neck.

And then he found Peter across from him, his laptop closed and head resting on folded arms.

And Tony knew who must have put the blanket over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	14. Chapter 14

Peter woke up underneath a blanket.

He didn’t remember getting a blanket for himself. He had gotten Tony a blanket—one that he had found in his own room (not really _his_ room, but Tony’s spare room that Peter was currently staying in). And then Peter had worked some more until his eyes felt like they were being burned out of his head, and he had set his head down for what was only supposed to be a minute.

 _Supposed_ to be a minute.

But as Peter opened his eyes, he found that the grey morning light had started filtering in from the windows behind him, the kitchen light blending in with the brightness. Peter blinked a few times and, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, slowly sat up. His neck was stiff, and so was his shoulders and his back, and the side of Peter’s face felt numb, but he still felt as though he had slept harder and longer than he had in what had to be months.

Peter looked at Tony.

He was still sitting across from him, blanket still half-tugged over his shoulders. He let out a quiet breath, shuffling his head to the side. Peter watched him for a moment. Just a moment.

Tony’s eyelashes were longer than Peter originally thought they were.

Peter swiveled around to the blanket still draped over himself. He guessed Tony had gotten up at some point after Peter had fallen asleep, probably snagged a blanket himself and given it to Peter. And Peter apparently hadn’t woken up.

Which—huh.

Now, Peter shuffled himself completely from out under the blanket. He folded it over the back of the chair and picked up his laptop. He moved quietly and gingerly, careful not to wake Tony, but Peter found with a strange pang that he was disappointed when Tony, in fact, did not wake.

Peter considered waking Tony then, telling Tony to get sleep somewhere that might be more comfortable, but then Peter was backing away, laptop clutched in his hands. He took a few steps back, and when Tony still didn’t wake, he turned around completely and walked into the spare room.

Peter slipped inside and closed the door behind himself. He knelt down by his suitcase, his hands fumbling for his laptop charger. He found it eventually, and sticking the charger into the outlet, Peter sat back on his heels and waited until the white light of his laptop flickered on. Satisfied, Peter stood up and looked around the room. His clothes still hung in the closet, the bed was still made the way Tony had left it last night.

Peter sat down on the bed, and he reached for his phone that he had left on the nightstand. He tapped on the screen and found multiple messages waiting for him—and for a moment, Peter’s chest tightened, but no, after a moment of scrolling through the screen, he found that there were only messages from May. MJ, Ned.

All of the messages ranging from different levels of concern: _may told me what happened_ , was MJ’s message. _call me when you have the chance._

Ned: _how are you holding up?? mj’s already looking up legal stuff._

And May: _we’re going to figure this out, okay? Just let me know when and where._

Peter scrubbed a hand over his face and set his phone back down on the nightstand. He told himself he would reply to those messages eventually. Later. When the messages felt more like messages instead of demands. With that small promise to himself, Peter stood up and walked out of the room.

He made it to the bathroom. Thankfully, the small room didn’t smell like vomit.

Peter closed the door behind himself, locked it. He splashed cold water over his face, rubbed the last of sleep from his eyes. He reached for his toothbrush—Tony had set his toothbrush in a cup, he realized a second later—and found the toothpaste without so much as looking. (Curled up, also sitting in the cup.)

Peter brushed at his teeth until his wrist felt numb from moving it for as long as he had. He ducked his head, spat into the basin, and washed out the remnants of foamy toothpaste from the sink. And then he wiped down the sink just for extra measure, even though he had the feeling that Tony wouldn’t have noticed or minded even if Peter had left water behind.

After what Peter had told him last night, and after how Tony reacted, Peter wasn’t entirely sure what it would take for Tony to actually stay angry at him.

Peter’s hand stilled at the sink. The words came rushing back through his head again—those hateful, poisonous words that Peter had uttered, looking up at Tony with what he knew had to be one of the ugliest expressions he could ever conjure up. He remembered the way Tony had looked down at him, those hurt eyes, that silently stunned expression and that dreadful quiet that followed—and then Tony leaving the room.

Peter remembered Tony showing up at the door a little while later, his voice so quiet and gentle that Peter wanted to throw something at him. Throw something and tell him _you should be angry, why aren’t you angry_ —but he hadn’t. Because he had been tired too, and he hadn’t known what to say. Let Tony win this one battle for once, because Peter had been battling him from the moment he had set foot in Tony’s apartment.

And then dinner last night: Tony, apologizing. _Tony_ , apologizing, out of two of them, out of it all—

Peter didn’t know what to make out of that apology. He wasn’t used to getting apologies, he was only used to giving them—

Peter flung open the bathroom door and strode through. He wiped his already-dried hands against his pants as he padded back into the main rooms of the apartment. He found Tony still asleep at the kitchen table, his head now tilted away from Peter.

Peter turned towards the living room. He crept towards the windows, tugged back a corner of the blinds just enough to see the window across the street. He saw his own apartment with its windows still closed, curtains still drawn, just as he had left it.

Peter had just let the blinds fall down back just as a knock sounded through the apartment.

Peter spun around to find Tony’s head jerking up from the table, and for a moment, Tony and Peter only looked at each other.

The knock came again.

“It’s okay,” Tony said, scraping his chair back. “Just…get back a little.”

Peter nodded. He could do that. He could get back.

He started to walk for the spare room when this time, a voice called through the door:

“Tony?”

A woman’s voice. Not a man’s.

Peter heard a long exhale. Relief, he realized. That was relief on Tony’s face, in his form as he turned around to Peter.

“Do you still want me to…?” Peter gestured towards the spare room.

“They’re friends,” Tony said. “You’ve met them before.” At Peter’s blank look, Tony said, “Nat, Pepper…”

Peter felt some tension flow from his shoulders. “Yeah,” he replied. “I remember them.”

The knock came again.

“Is he asleep?” Peter heard another woman’s voice ask. “You don’t think he forgot, do you?”

Peter looked at Tony, who winced. “Were you supposed to…”

“It’s nothing,” Tony said quickly. He started to walk to the door, but before he opened it, he turned around to Peter and added, “But if you’re feeling…”

“No, it’s okay,” Peter said, pocketing his hands. “I’m fine.” _And this is your apartment_ , Peter thought. Tony was free to welcome whoever he wanted.

Tony nodded once, and then he opened the door.

“See, he’s not asleep,” came Pepper’s voice, just as Natasha said, “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” Tony said dryly, opening the door a little wider, and Natasha and Pepper both filed in.

Peter wondered if he should have stayed in the spare room after all when the women saw him.

There was a brief pause, and then Pepper smiled. “Hello, Peter,” she said. “We didn’t know you were here.”

“He’s staying with me for just a bit,” Tony said, closing the door. He appeared moments later, and Peter felt a strange relief as Tony swept up to his side. “He’s just got some issues with his place, so—”

“Being neighborly,” Natasha finished, looking at Peter. She smiled, but Peter had the strange feeling that she was already assessing him, evaluating him. Evaluating the situation. Peter remembered how vague Natasha had been when describing what she did the first time they met. Actually, he wasn’t even sure he knew what Natasha did—he just had the feeling that this wasn’t her first time evaluating an unexpected circumstance.

Then Natasha asked, “Well, then, would you like to join us, Peter?”

“Yes, good idea,” Pepper said, turning to Natasha and then to Tony and then to Peter. “We were about to head out for brunch.”

“Were we?” Tony’s voice was strained.

“We _were_ ,” Pepper said with a pointed look at Tony. “I told you that we would be seeing you after the wedding, didn’t I?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Perfect,” Natasha said loftily. “So now you’ll have a reason to not be busy anymore.” She looked at Peter, her smile a little less teasing than it had been a moment ago. “And Tony probably doesn’t have anything in his fridge right now anyways, so you might as well.”

Tony looked over at Peter.

Peter looked at Tony.

Tony lifted his shoulders—a seemingly casual gesture, but Peter saw the silent question in Tony’s eyes, the slight tilt of his head. Another question entirely on its own.

“I’m…” Peter swallowed, turned to look at Natasha and Pepper. They were still waiting.

He looked back at Tony.

 _Your call_ , Tony had said before. _Your call_ with everything.

“Okay,” Peter heard himself say. He turned himself away from Tony and faced Natasha and Pepper, whose expressions hadn’t changed. “Sure,” he said, twisting his hands in his pockets. “Sounds…okay. Let me just get my stuff.”

\--

Peter wasn’t sure why he agreed.

But he had, and now he was sitting next to Tony at a white circular table with handwritten menus and mason jars full of succulents. He read the menu three times before finally realizing that he was looking at the _drinks_ side of the menu.

Tony wordlessly flipped over the menu before Peter could.

“So,” Pepper said, smiling at Peter from her own menu, “have you been here before?”

“No,” Peter replied, thinking of the same diner that his friends and he had gone to since forever. He felt bad suddenly. He probably should have answered their messages. He probably should have responded to May’s message. He would have to later.

“This is a nice place,” Peter said at last, looking around the space.

The restaurant Pepper and Natasha had chosen _was_ nice—clean, not too big or too small. They sat at a table right by the tall open windows, which let in a breeze that fluttered the edges of their menus every few minutes. The whole place smelled like coffee and the hazelnut creamer that May liked.

“Yes, it is,” Pepper said fondly, looking up at the high ceiling. Peter tilted his head upward to find the lines of dimmed lightbulbs, some artificial greenery. “And the food’s good, too. I recommend everything.”

“Oh,” Peter said, looking down at the menu. He focused on a doodle of a dancing strawberry in the corner. “Great.”

They all sat in silence for a few seconds, each of them contemplating their choices. A waitress came by at one point with water, and Tony and Natasha requested coffee. Pepper requested tea, but Peter stuck with his water. And then, when the waitress left, Peter stupidly wondered if he should have requested coffee after all, because he suddenly had that feeling that he was some little kid freshman who had tagged along to some seniors’ outing. Not even seniors—maybe grad students. Doctorate students. The person Peter was closest in age too was Natasha, and he guessed that she had to be at least a good decade older than him.

“So, Peter,” Natasha said suddenly, as though sensing Peter’s thoughts, “how’s living with Tony? He hasn’t driven you crazy yet?”

“No,” Peter said quickly. Too quickly, he knew he had responded too quickly because Natasha smiled. “Nothing crazy.”

“He only just came in yesterday,” Tony said flatly. “Stop interrogating, Romanoff.”

“I’m not interrogating, I’m just asking,” Natasha said just as the waitress came back with the drinks. Peter was glad for the small distraction, and he looked back down at his menu.

“Ready to order?” the waitress asked, already flipping open a pad of paper.

There were some murmurs, and then, when it became clear that most of them knew what they wanted, the waitress went through their orders. Peter requested the first thing his eyes landed on—some omelet, despite the fact that he could never finish them—and then their table lapsed back into silence.

“Apartment trouble, right?” Pepper asked after a little while. She gave Peter a sympathetic smile. “That’s not fun.”

“Yeah,” Peter replied, thinking about how he had hid in his own room. “Not really.” He picked up his water glass and took a sip.

“What have you two been up to?” Tony asked, leaning back in his chair a little. “Wedding plans coming along? Are you two still doing the flower crowns?”

Natasha’s lips twitched again. “Are you sure you want to talk about weddings?” she asked, stirring her coffee. “I thought you would be a little bored of them after the last one.”

“No,” Tony said. “Go ahead.”

Natasha and Pepper exchanged a small look that Peter wasn’t quite sure how to decipher. A secret, amused look—that much he could tell. And then Pepper said, “We’ve decided against the flower crowns. Nat and I both agreed that making them would be too much of a hassle. And we weren’t sure all of our guests would wear them, anyways.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Tony said dryly. “I look great in flower crowns.”

“We’ll put one in your goody bag,” Natasha said. “Specifically for you.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Should we put one in Peter’s, too?”

Peter nearly choked on his water. He coughed hastily, turning aside to keep himself from spewing water all over the table.

“Peter, you—”

“Sorry,” Peter said, heat rushing up his face. He glanced over at Tony, quickly turned to Natasha and Pepper, then back to the table. “Sorry,” he repeated. “Wrong pipe.”

“My fault,” Natasha said, leaning back in her chair. Her smile had faded a little. “Bad joke, clearly.”

“It’s okay,” Peter managed, setting down his water glass. “It’s…really.”

“We were glad to see you at the wedding the other week,” Pepper said. “That was all that was meant.” She looked sincere, and she sounded sincere too, and Peter didn’t think that Natasha’s words were meant to be cruel, but Peter still appreciated the gesture. He braced on a quick smile, but he found that he couldn’t quite feel it.

But before anyone could think of anything to say next, the food came.

\--

The conversation quickly moved away from weddings and guest lists and flower crowns. Peter learned that Pepper was a businesswoman—simply put, nothing more added, but Peter had the sneaking suspicion that there was much more to her occupation than she was letting on. With Natasha, too, who vaguely mentioned something about security.

When it became clear that their careers wasn’t exactly something worth elaborating on, the conversation took another turn for Peter—asking about college, his hobbies. That feeling of being a small freshman in a crowd of seniors or grad students intensified until Tony knocked over his coffee and asked for napkins. Peter had the sneaking suspicion that Tony did that on purpose, but neither of them mentioned it as they mopped up the table.

“Here,” Tony said, reaching out a hand to take the wet napkins in Peter’s hands. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You don’t have to,” Peter replied.

“Yeah,” Tony said, reaching across the table and taking the napkins anyways. “But I want to.”

Peter let Tony take the napkins. He watched Tony throw them out.

And then Peter noticed Natasha looking at him and quickly focused back on his food.

\--

Peter and Tony slid into the backseat of Natasha and Pepper’s car a little while later, smelling like coffee and eggs.

Natasha and Pepper were laughing about something as they slipped into the front seat, and then Natasha swung around, strands of her red hair falling in her face as she asked Peter and Tony, “You two comfy back there?”

“Fine,” Tony said.

“Great,” Natasha replied, swinging back around in her seat. Peter caught her looking at him in the mirror, and he shifted his eyes away. He could hear the smile in her voice as she added, “You know, Peter, it was nice having you today. We should all do this again some other time. I promise I won’t crack any bad jokes next time.”

 _Next time_ , Peter thought dully.

“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Sure.”

 _Freshman_ , he thought again. _Freshman surrounded by a bunch of old seniors._

The car peeled away from the sidewalk and down the roads. Peter rested his elbow against the window, propped his head up against his hand as he watched the streets and buildings pass by. They had been at that restaurant for a little more than two and a half hours, longer than Peter had anticipated.

He thought about the messages on his phone, and he tugged it out to find a few more messages, all of them from MJ and Ned and May.

Peter started to tap out a few messages: _I’m okay_ , he started, and then he deleted that.

 _Sorry to worry you_ , he wrote, but he deleted that, too.

 _Staying with a_ —Peter stopped, his thumb hovering over his keyboard. _Staying with a neighbor? Friend? Acquaintance?_

Peter deleted that text too.

He was still mulling over what next to write when his phone buzzed, alerting him that his battery was down to an alarming number. Peter hadn’t charged his phone last night. Actually, had he—

Peter wasn’t even sure if he brought his charger to Tony’s. His laptop charger, yes. Phone charger…no, Peter couldn’t remember if he had brought his phone charger or not.

“Something wrong?”

Peter looked at Tony. “Yeah,” Peter said. “It’s just—my phone’s dying.”

“Did you…” Tony didn’t need to finish.

“I don’t think so.”

“I have extra chargers back home,” Tony said. “You can borrow one of mine.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They settled back into silence: Peter, fiddling with his dying phone. Tony, watching the cars on his side.

The streets became more familiar eventually, and Peter saw the apartment buildings coming closer and closer.

“Home sweet home,” Pepper said from the front seat. “Safe and sound.”

 _Safe and sound_ , Peter thought. He stuck his phone in his back pocket. _Safe and sound_.

And then the car stopped short.

Peter fell forward, nearly hitting his head against the back of Natasha’s seat.

“ _Nat_ —” Tony’s angry voice reached Peter’s ears. “What was that—”

“Sorry,” Natasha said. There was the whir of a window, and then Natasha shouted, “ _Watch where you’re going!_ ”

And then Peter heard a sharp intake of breath—Tony, he realized, and Peter started to move his head up, but then he felt a hand—Tony’s hand, that was Tony’s hand—press lightly on the back of his head. Pressing him down.

Peter tried to lift his head again, tried to see what the commotion was all about, but then he heard—

“Sorry, ma’am. Wasn’t paying attention.”

Peter froze. He turned his head a little—just a little, just enough to catch Tony’s face. It had gone cold, stony.

And then Peter heard footsteps. Heavy footsteps.

The hand on Peter’s head stiffened.

“Hey,” Quentin said. “Fancy running into you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr (charonsdescent) ](https://charonsdescent.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hi!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tony!”
> 
> And then—
> 
> “Peter!”

As Tony looked into the blue eyes of the man who he knew had wrecked Peter’s life, he found that he had two options: he could either keep both Peter and himself still and play along (and hope that would be enough to give this sick fuck the hint to get the _fuck_ out of here), or he could get out of the car right now and tell Natasha and Pepper to get Peter out of the neighborhood. But before Tony could think of something to say, he felt a sudden jerk under his hand—and then Peter was sitting up, his face ashen but his jaw set.

“ _Peter_ ,” Tony started, but Peter wasn’t looking at him.

The man’s smile widened. “Well,” he said. “This _is_ a surprise.”

“Tony? Peter?” Pepper called from the front seat. She swiveled around slowly, her eyes flicking between Tony and the man. “Do you know this person?”

“No,” Tony said quickly, just as Peter said, “Yes.”

Tony looked at Peter, but he was already unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Nat—” Tony started, and then there was the click of the door’s locks just as Peter set his hand on the door handle.

“Look at that,” Natasha said mildly. “My finger slipped.”

But Peter tugged at the door handle anyways. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’m really—”

“You heard him,” the man outside said, that smile still on his face, in his voice. “He’s fine. We just need to have a quick chat, don’t we, Peter?”

Tony saw the slight tremble in Peter’s hands as he tugged at the door handle again. He suddenly saw a different time: same pair of wrists, the same tremble. A note with two words. Peter, flinching away from his touch. Peter, running out of the apartment building at three in the morning. Peter, not quite being able to make eye contact because of—

Tony turned back around to where the man was still standing. Waiting. Expecting. Almost with a lazy look about him now, as though he knew what Peter was going to do. A cold block of fury dropped down on Tony’s chest as that man’s lazy smile only stretched at Tony’s attention.

Fuck this.

Tony swung back around to Peter, who was tugging harder at the door handle now. He had found the lock, and every time he tried to unlock the door, Natasha would lock it again. The frequency with which the lock clicked on and off would have been funny if Peter’s hands weren’t shaking so hard or if that creep was still standing outside the door, still waiting.

“Listen,” Pepper said, her voice deathly cold and cutting—the businesswoman voice, Tony knew. “I don’t know who you are, but clearly, you’re creating an upset, and clearly, you’ve been waiting for Mr. Parker.” Her eyes narrowed. “And unless you want to be charged a fine for loitering, I would recommend you get a move on.”

“I’m not loitering,” the man replied. “I’m just visiting my boyfriend. Isn’t that right, Peter?”

“Don’t talk to him,” Tony snapped as Peter’s shoulders stiffened.

“Tony, don’t—” Peter.

But the man’s eyes had fixed on Tony again, one of his dark eyebrows lifting. There was a brief pause, and then the man’s eyes were roving up and down Tony’s face. Tony could almost see the gears turning in the man’s head, see the pieces fitting together, and he hated the sickening twist in his stomach as the man said, “ _So_ , Peter…I see your taste in guys haven’t changed.”

A sneer—an ugly sneer, one that seemed to make the man’s eyes larger as he tilted his head at Tony. “You know, we _could_ look alike,” he mused. “Maybe off by ten, twenty years, but _hey_ …who am I to judge, right?”

“Tony…” That was Natasha. A warning in her voice.

“So how long?” the man asked, leaning backwards a little. But Tony still felt like he was closer than ever, that smooth voice of his curling through the open door of the car like smoke. “A few weeks? I’m guessing a few weeks.” He tilted his head to the other side, his eyes wandering past Tony’s shoulder and to where Tony knew Peter was still struggling against the door. “What have you two done so far? Has he asked you to fuck him yet?”

A sharp intake of breath—Peter, as well as Tony’s own.

“ _Tony_ ,” Natasha said again, her voice sharper.

“Did he?” the man asked, that cruel smile returning. “Older guy like you—he probably just _begged_ for your cock. And you…” He flicked his eyes up and down Tony’s face again. “You probably loved it.” He lifted his shoulders. “Kids like him, they would make guys like you love it. And _Peter_ —” A laugh. “Peter’s the worst of them—”

Tony couldn’t hear the rest. He unlocked his door faster than Natasha could lock it back again, and then he was lunging forward, hands already curled into fists.

They landed on the pavement, and Tony felt some sharp pain spear itself into his knee, but he didn’t care. He rolled over on his side, dragging the man by the jacket lapels. He curled his fist forward, found a jaw. He heard a satisfying _pop_ , but that triumph was short-lived, because Tony only just made out the man’s raging expression before he felt a hard fist connect with the side of his face. Then his eye.

Tony’s head slammed back against the concrete, and for a few seconds, the only thing he could see were yellow dots against the grey sky before he registered another fist being pulled back—

He rolled away just in time, and he heard the sick crunch of knuckles against pavement.

“ _Tony!_ ”

And then—

“ _Peter!_ ”

Tony heard feet rushing out of the car, and then arms were yanking him up—he made out Pepper’s face, and then Peter’s, his face pale and his eyes wide. Too wide. He wanted to say so, but then he heard another sick _crunch_ , and then a howl of pain.

He turned to find Natasha standing above the man, her face cold and unfeeling as the man writhed under her heeled boot.

“Oops,” Natasha said. “Looks like you might have broken something.” Her voice turning into a menacing hiss, she added, “Unless you want to break some more things, I suggest you get out of here.”

The man only struggled under Natasha’s boot, and then he turned his head briefly to the side. Tony heard Peter’s shuddering breath a moment later, and Tony instinctively reached for Peter’s shoulders. He turned Peter away with a quick turn, but too late—the man had known what effect he had, and he _liked_ it.

There was suddenly another hard slam of boot against skin and bone, and then a strangled cry.

“I _said_ ,” Natasha growled, “get out of here.”

“Come on,” Pepper murmured, pushing both Tony and Peter away from the car, towards the apartment building. “You two should go inside. Let Nat take care of this.”

“She—” Peter’s voice was hoarse, and he was already swiveling around, but this time it was _both_ Tony and Pepper to direct him back to the apartment building. “But what if—”

“She’ll handle it just fine,” Pepper reassured Peter. “Don’t worry about her. I would be more worried about him, to be honest.” She opened the door to the apartment building. “In the meantime, let’s just get cleaned up, hm? And I think we all have some discussing to do.”

\--

By the time they got up to the apartment, Tony’s knee, cheek, and eye were throbbing. He was glad that they took the elevator. Tony sagged against the back of the elevator, holding onto the rails as Pepper punched at a button. Peter still hovered at his side, and for a moment, Tony wondered if he was breathing—

But then Peter turned around quickly to Tony, his face wan but determined. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Tony wanted to laugh. _He_ should be the one asking _Peter_ that question, but the gleam in Peter’s eyes kept Tony’s laugh back. He just nodded, trying not to wince at the dull ache in his head. “What, this?” he asked. “I’ve had worse.”

“He’s really had,” Pepper said over her shoulder. She looked over at him, brows furrowed. “But we’ll still have to get you an icepack. Do you have icepacks?”

“I’ve got ice,” Tony offered.

“Good,” Pepper replied, turning back around.

They were quiet until the elevator doors opened. Pepper strode through first, keeping her arm out to keep the elevator doors from closing again. Tony made the mistake of moving too fast—pain lanced up his leg, and then he was stumbling forward, fairly certain he was about to make an ungraceful fall to the ground when Peter was suddenly there at his side, arm hooking around Tony’s waist. Tony caught the faint smell of laundry detergent and something warm, mixed with the lingering scents of the restaurant they had been in.

“Come on,” Peter said. “Watch your step.”

Tony did.

He kept his eyes on their feet, their steps moving in a clunky rhythm with the each other until they stopped in front of his door.

“Keys?” Pepper asked, turning around to Tony.

“Yeah, just give me a…” Tony shifted against Peter, ignoring the way Peter’s hand skimmed the side of his waist as he dug his hand into his pocket. He managed to tug out the key and set it down on Pepper’s waiting palm.

A few twists and turns, and then Pepper pushed the door.

“Ice?” she asked.

“Freezer,” Tony replied. “Top compartment.”

Pepper nodded and walked in, still holding the door open for Tony and Peter.

They walk-stumbled inside. Neither of them bothered to take off their shoes, not until Peter led them to the couch.

“Careful,” Peter said as they lowered themselves down. “Tony—”

“I got it, I got it,” Tony huffed, and they landed on the couch with a soft thump. And then Tony recognized a second later—a second too long—that Peter’s arm was still wrapped around his waist, and Tony was probably cutting Peter’s circulation by pressing it against the couch—

“Sorry,” Tony said, shifting up.

“It’s okay,” Peter replied, slipping his arm away. The warmth at Tony’s side disappeared.

But Peter remained at Tony’s other side. His hands were resting on his thighs, fingers curled inward.

“Are _you_ okay?” Tony asked. His voice came out quieter than he expected.

“No.” Peter’s voice was quiet too.

Before Tony could think of something to say, there was the buzz of a phone. Tony and Peter both jumped, but Pepper was lifting her phone to her ear. “Just Nat,” she said, shooting them a weary smile. She wrapped a bag of ice with a towel and handed it to Peter before walking towards the door.

Peter turned to Tony, ice in hand. “Do you want me to…?”

“It’s okay,” Tony said, taking the ice from Peter. “I’ve got it.”

Peter nodded once.

And then the door swung open, and Natasha was heard walking in a moment later. There were a few murmurs that Tony couldn’t make out, and then the clunk of Natasha’s boots being dropped in the hallway before she finally walked into the living room. A few strands of hair were out of place, and her shirt was a little rumpled, but to the casual observer, Natasha might have looked like she had just gone for a brief walk in the breeze.

But Tony noticed the slight roll in Natasha’s shoulders, the quick flex of her wrists to know that that was anything but the case.

“So?” Tony asked, holding the ice up to his face. He winced, drew the ice pack back.

“ _So_ ,” Natasha said, flopping down on an armchair, “our little friend might need to pay a quick trip to the hospital to get his wrist seen.” She examined her nails, adding, “And also, he’s insane.”

“Well, _anyone_ could figure that out,” Tony muttered, adjusting his grip on the ice pack.

“Don’t be so sure,” Natasha said, still examining her nails. “Seems like the kind of person who’s used to charming his way out of sticky situations.” She dropped her hand against her lap, her gaze pinning on Peter and Tony. “I might have scared him away for just a little while, but I wouldn’t it past creeps like him to try something else in the next few days. Until we take care of him for good, I suggest you two finding some other place.”

“What do you mean, for good?” Peter asked, his brows furrowed.

Natasha lifted an eyebrow. “What do you think?” she asked.

When Peter stared, Pepper said quickly, “We’ve taken care of harassment and stalking cases before. _Legal_ ways of taking care.” She shot Natasha an exasperated look. “You need to stop saying things like that.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Natasha replied loftily, swinging her legs over an armrest. She nudged Pepper’s side with her feet, causing the other woman to just roll her eyes and sit down on an opposite armchair.

But Tony wasn’t about to let the conversation slip. “Some other place,” he repeated. “Meaning—”

“The Grand Hyatt already has a suite waiting for you two,” Natasha said. “Two bedrooms. Nice city view. Should be nice.”

“Nat—”

“It’s just for a few days,” Natasha said, swinging her legs away from the armchair. “They’ll be waiting for you to check in by tonight. Pepper and I will send a car. In the meantime…” She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “Peter?”

Peter slowly looked up at Natasha.

Natasha smiled. A soft, gentle smile that Tony had only ever seen her give a handful of times.

“I’m going to need you to tell me what you know about this guy, okay?” Natasha said. “So we can help you.”

Peter turned away. “I didn’t…” His voice was faint, and Tony’s chest tightened as Peter added, “I’m really sorry.” He looked around the room, at Tony, his face stricken. “I didn’t want this to happen.” He said the last part to Tony. He felt Peter’s eyes linger on where he knew a bruise was probably forming on his face.

“It’s happening,” Natasha said. “And we can make it stop. We _will_ , Peter.”

But Peter was still looking at Tony.

Tony didn’t know whether he was supposed to keep looking or turn away.

And then Peter said, “His name’s Quentin Beck.” He turned away from Tony and to Natasha. “We met when I was in college. End of my junior year.” He started to sink a little, but then at the last second, he pushed back his shoulders. “It was okay at first.” His voice faltered for a second. “ _Really_ okay. Better than okay.”

No one said anything as Peter blinked back into focus. “Anyways,” he said, “it just…um.” He blinked a few more times. “ _Um_ …”

“Take your time,” Tony said quietly.

Peter nodded, still blinking. His hands kept squeezing over his knees, loosening one second and tightening in the next. His knuckles had gone white. “Anyways,” he said. “Things just…weren’t that okay anymore.” He shifted a little in his seat and said to the floor, “We were living together for a little while. And um…I went to my aunt’s once. On one of the not okay days.”

Tony remembered how Peter hadn’t wanted to go to his aunt’s. He remembered Peter lying to the police.

“But Quentin—he’s visited my aunt before,” Peter said. “I…brought him over there a few times. Before.” His shoulders rounded over. “And…it wasn’t…” He swallowed.

Dead silence.

“Um,” Peter said at last, lifting his head. His eyes were red-rimmed. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” he said, his voice cracking. He looked over at Tony. “ _Anyone_.”

“And no one is going to get hurt,” Natasha said, drawing Peter’s focus away. “Not this time.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Tony said, finally finding his voice. He met Peter’s gaze. “Okay?” He looked at Natasha. “Tonight, right?”

Natasha flicked her eyes between Tony and Peter, but she didn’t say anything. “Tonight,” she confirmed. “The car should be here by six o’clock sharp. Make sure that you’ve packed up all the stuff that you need.” She stood up. “Lock the doors, close the blinds…call if anything happens.”

Tony nodded. “Thanks,” he said.

“And next time,” Natasha added, “at least warn me when you’re about to throw yourself out of my car.”

Tony managed a wry smile that hurt his cheek.

And then Natasha and Pepper were both leaving. Tony managed to lift his hand in a halfhearted wave as they filed out, and then there was the swing, click of a door opening and shutting.

Tony figured he should probably get up and start packing. He figured Peter should do the same.

Neither of them moved.

And then Peter was turning towards Tony, reaching for the ice in Tony’s hand. “You should probably…” Tony let Peter pick the towel of ice from his hands. Peter adjusted the bag in the towel, shifted it around until the towel had some more shape. Still looking down at the ice, Peter said, “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Tony said.

Peter looked up. “He hurt you,” he said quietly. “And…”

“Come on,” Tony said, stifling a groan as he sat up. “I told you before—this is nothing.” He tried for a smile, but this time, he couldn’t hold back the wince as his jaw throbbed. He started to push his hand up to the side of his face, but before he could, Peter was already there with the toweled ice.

“Stay still,” Peter said, shifting onto his knees. He pushed himself up to readjust the ice pack on Tony’s face. Tony felt the subsequent brush of towel against his cheek and tilted his head back just enough to catch Peter’s face.

Peter was biting down on his bottom lip just slightly, his eyes focused on where the towel sat on Tony’s face. They weren’t quite as wide as they had been a few minutes ago, not quite as panicked or frantic, but there was a sad gleam there, one that Tony thought didn’t belong there.

“Peter,” Tony said quietly. He pushed his hand up to the towel, his fingers just barely brushing against Peter’s. He found that Peter’s fingers were colder now, probably from the ice pack. “I’m okay.”

Peter looked down to meet Tony’s eyes. _New angle_ , Tony thought.

“He hurt you,” Peter said tightly.

 _And he’s hurt you more_ , Tony thought. He didn’t say that.

“I’m okay,” Tony repeated. He figured he should probably take the ice pack away from Peter. At least set his hand down.

He didn’t.

Peter didn’t move away either.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered.

“Stop apologizing,” Tony replied quietly. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” He adjusted his hand on the ice pack, his fingers brushing against Peter’s again. This time, Tony could have sworn he felt Peter’s fingers twitch underneath his touch—probably a reflex. Probably.

And then, quietly: “Tony.”

“Peter.” Tony adjusted his hand again. It was growing numb from the cold. But this time, his fingers caught around Peter’s—a light tangle, cold fingertips entwining around his own. Tony thought he heard a breath hitch, but whether that was Peter’s or his own, he couldn’t tell. It might have been both of them.

Tony found Peter’s eyes still fixed on him. Not just on _him_ —flicking down, just for a fraction of a second—

Tony found himself straining upwards, almost reaching—

 _What the fuck_ —

Quentin’s words came barreling back to him: “ _kids like him, guys like you_ …”

 _What the fuck_ —

_Fuck—_

And then Tony saw Peter, his face in an ugly scowl as he asked: “ _of having this kid needing your_ —”

 _Fuck fuck fuck_ —

Tony dropped his hand, the icepack falling to his lap.

Peter blinked. “Tony?”

“Sorry,” Tony said. He pushed himself up to his feet. “I just…we should start packing.”

For a second, Peter remained on the couch, his brows furrowed and eyes distant—and then, blinking quickly, he stood up. “Right,” he said, not quite looking at Tony. “Packing. Um. What time…” He tugged out his phone, and Tony dully remembered that Peter’s phone was almost dead, but Peter didn’t seem to care or notice.

“Better hurry,” was all Peter said, still not quite to Tony, and then he was pushing past.

Tony didn’t move until he heard the click of Peter’s door.

And then he walked into his own room.

Tony closed the door behind himself.

Let himself fall back against the door.

Tilted his head up to the ceiling.

 _What the fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :))))))) 
> 
> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> (also, if there's any other Taylor Swift fans out there--um, folklore came out at midnight, and I've been listening to that album nonstop oh boy I just needed to share that. There's this one song called 'illicit affairs' and there's these lyrics that go "don't call me kid, don't call me baby, look at this idiotic fool that you've made me" and when I tell you my brain jumped to these two...)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strangers. They had been absolute strangers just a few weeks ago—

Peter tore down his clothes from the hangers, ignoring the noisy clatter of metal against metal. He threw his shirts on the bed, not caring if they would get wrinkled or not. A pair of his jeans fell to his feet, and Peter bent down to pick it up. He banged his head against the wall coming back up, and he let out a sharp cry, running his hand over where he knew a bump would form later.

Peter tried to get up fully, tried to resume his tear-down of the closet, but no, he just sank back down to the floor knees-first, hand still rubbing over his head. Stupid closet. Stupid _fucking_ closet.

Peter dropped his jeans against his lap and looked up at the hangers still holding up some of his clothes. Luckily, he hadn’t packed much to begin with, so he figured packing wasn’t going to be too much of a problem for him, but still, he couldn’t focus on the clothes around him.

Peter picked up his jeans. Folded them over in his hands. Looked to his suitcase, which was still propped open by the nightstand.

His shirts and some of his other pants were still lying strewn on the bed. His laptop was still perched on the desk, charging.

Peter figured he could put all of those things away in just a matter of minutes. Thirty minutes, tops.

He tugged out his phone and found that it was dead. His phone had been dead when he had looked down at it before, when he had been trying to figure out what time it was. But he hadn’t really cared what time it was—he just needed to look at something that wasn’t Tony’s face.

Peter’s hands stilled over his jeans.

He could still feel Tony’s fingers brushing against his. He had thought it was an accident at first—but then their hands had somehow found the other’s, and Peter had just been struck by how warm Tony’s fingers were, how their hands seemed to fit so naturally—

Tony had been looking up at him. _A new angle_ , Peter had thought. He was so used to— _used to_ —looking _up_ at Tony, but in that moment, it had been Peter hovering above him, Peter who had been at a height where he could brush back Tony’s hair, maybe cup his hand right over the corner of his mouth, his cheek…

And he had thought—he _thought_ he felt Tony shift underneath his hand. He _thought_ he saw Tony’s head tilt back just briefly, thought he saw the strain in Tony’s movements as he shifted forward, _upward_ …

 _What the fuck_ , Peter thought, too aware of the heat rushing up his body. _What the fuck_ —

Tony couldn’t have—he wouldn’t have—

And Peter wasn’t—that wasn’t what he—

_Was it?_

Peter didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. Because Tony was still somewhere in the apartment, probably in the room just next to his, packing. Probably not thinking the same thing. Probably not imagining lips and hitched breaths and hands running down bare skin—

Peter was too aware of the near-painful heat in his pants. He pushed his folded jeans off his lap, saw the evidence of his own thoughts fully exposed.

Peter swallowed, tilting his head back against the closet doorway as his hands worked to undo his pants. In just a few seconds, he had his hand palming his long-since hardened cock. Peter closed his eyes as his hand traveled down his own length, and then—

He saw Tony underneath him, eyes dark and sharp. Lips slightly parted as his hand found Peter’s.

Peter pushed his hand up slowly, slowly. A shiver ran down his spine. _Wrong,_ picturing Tony was _wrong_ , he shouldn’t be picturing _Tony_ , not after everything that just—

But the image of Tony’s face persisted, that curve of his jaw and his lips and his eyes and— _hands_ , Peter had felt his hand. Peter saw himself leaning down, because that was what he wanted—he wanted to lean down and take and take right there, drag his lips over Tony’s and bite.

Peter slid his hand back down, felt another shiver as he suddenly pictured himself leaning over Tony, helping him get rid of his shirt, pants. Feeling Tony’s body underneath him, seeing his own hands span over Tony’s chest, his stomach as Peter would lower himself down—

He imagined Tony grabbing at his shirt, tugging him forward. Down to him. He imagined Tony laughing in his ear, his hand pressing against the back of Peter’s head as he pushed himself in—

Peter bit down on his lip, bucking his hips upwards in time to his strokes. A bead of sweat had started rolling down the side of his face, which he didn’t bother wiping away. He was lost in it now, lost in this sick, twisted dream of—

Tony shuddering Peter’s name into his ear, Tony dragging Peter down to himself, Tony reaching, reaching—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Peter hissed, and he came right into his hand.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ —

Peter looked around for something to wipe his hand against. Realized there was nothing.

Peter looked down at himself. He had created a mess.

Standing slowly, limply, Peter gathered up his pants. He shoved them on, grabbed a new pair of underwear and pants—and a shirt, just because he didn’t want to be obvious—and stumbled for the bathroom. He was relieved to see that Tony’s door was closed, and the bathroom door was unlocked.

Peter nearly threw himself inside, and he locked the door behind himself.

He shucked off his clothes, turned on the shower.

But he didn’t step in right away, not while the water was still cold.

And Peter hated himself for it, but he waited until the water was warm, until it was easy…

And Peter found himself leaning against the tiled wall a few minutes later, one hand pressed over his panting mouth, the other working against his still half-hard cock. He pounded himself into his palm, grateful that the shower was as loud as it was.

And after he came a second time, Peter turned the water cold.

\--

Tony was standing outside the bathroom when Peter came out.

Peter blinked, holding his clothes to his chest. He was glad he had bothered changing in the bathroom. “Tony,” he said, finding his voice a moment later.

“Peter,” Tony said quickly, straightening against the wall. “Are you…”

“Yeah, I’m done,” Peter said, stepping out of the door. He sidestepped, gestured halfheartedly inside.

“Thanks,” Tony said, but he didn’t step forward.

“Is there…”

“No,” Tony said.

“Okay.”

A silence, and then Peter gestured again. He tried to not focus on how pathetic the gesture was—as though he was giving Tony permission to use his own _bathroom_ —

But if Tony found the gesture strange, he didn’t show it. He just nodded and walked past Peter, and when he was closing the door, Peter was already walking back to the spare room. His room. The room that Tony offered him. The room that Tony, his neighbor-turned-some-kind-of-acquaintance, had offered him.

Strangers. They had been absolute _strangers_ just a few weeks ago—

Peter swung open the door and looked at the mess of clothes still thrown on the bed. He shut the door behind himself and walked over to his kicked-open suitcase. He started with the shirts, folding them over once, twice, and an unnecessary third time before sticking it into the case. He reached for his phone and tried to turn it on, send back some texts, but a low battery symbol only flashed up at him.

Peter pocketed his phone and looked back down at his suitcase. Next shirt. He folded the next shirt, and then the next shirt, and the next shirt after that. He folded over his pants and pushed them into the suitcase until the clothes were near-perfect rectangles and squares.

Peter found that folding the clothes familiar. Almost soothing in ways more than one. Something that he had gotten used to over the years, from packing to go back and forth between May’s and campus, and then when he had packed a suitcase to leave… _that_ place to May’s. And then packing things again, only then to go from May’s to a new apartment, a quiet apartment where he had thought he wouldn’t have to worry about—

Peter stopped, his hands coming short of the suitcase’s zipper.

He saw Quentin’s face suddenly, that coy, too-knowing smile that Peter had first trapped himself in when they started. When everything had started. There had been a time when Peter had fought so hard to get that smile to come his way, and he had _thrilled_ whenever it did.

And now that same smile followed him, taunted him as Peter shut the top of his suitcase.

“ _Kids like him_ —”

Peter squeezed his fingers around the zipper and yanked the suitcase closed. He could still see Quentin’s smile, hear that sneer in his voice as he whispered, “ _Kids like him_ —”

“ _He begged for your cock_ —”

Peter shoved the suitcase against the wall with a hard _thump_. His hands burned, but he didn’t care. He sat back on his haunches, wiping his hands against his pants leg. Trying to get some feeling back into them. Trying to rid himself of the—

He felt dirty. Dirty and disgusting and—

Tony had lunged for Quentin. Peter had been surprised when he had. Surprised and confused and then _panic_ , complete _panic_ when he saw Quentin’s fist fly for Tony’s face.

And now, seeing Tony underneath him on the couch again, Peter’s head swam with whispers and images that didn’t match. Tony had lunged for Quentin, landed a punch because he had been saying those things, but had Tony punched because of what Quentin had said about Peter, or because of what Quentin had said about _Tony_?

“ _Guys like you_ ,” Quentin had said.

“ _Having this kid need your_ —”

Peter’s face burned. He sat back fully on the ground, hands already pushing up to his face. And then he thought of the way Tony had looked at him, how Peter had looked down at Tony’s eyes— _God_ , they had been holding hands. _Peter_ had been holding Tony’s hand. _Peter_ had been the one who had started it all, and Peter had been the one to jerk off just minutes ago, imagining Tony begging for him. _Begging_. _Needing_.

Peter hated himself.

 _Kids like him_ …

Peter dropped his forehead against his kneecaps.

He heard Tony walk out of the bathroom. He heard Tony’s quiet footsteps pad past his door, and for a second, Peter thought he heard the steps slow, but no, a second later, Tony was heading for his own bedroom. Peter heard the creak and the distant click of the door next to his.

Peter waited for Tony to knock on his door.

He didn’t.

\--

The car came at six o’clock sharp, exactly as Natasha had said it would.

Peter found himself standing by the front door of the apartment, Tony standing a little ways across from him. Tony hadn’t packed much, Peter noticed. Just a duffel, probably holding little more than a few clothes of his own.

 _A few days_ , Natasha had said. Peter wasn’t sure how much of that he was supposed to believe. If he could bring himself to believe.

He didn’t even know what to make of Natasha, either. He didn’t even know what she did. He didn’t even know why she was involved.

“Is your phone dead?”

Peter turned to Tony. “What?”

“Your phone,” Tony said. He reached into his duffel, and a moment later, he was extending a charger. “Told you that you could borrow one of mine. It’s portable.”

“Oh,” Peter said. He reached forward and picked the charger out of Tony’s hand. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

 _That’s what you said last time_ , Peter thought.

He just nodded and took out his phone. The soft vibration and the hum that followed told Peter that his phone was on its way back to life. He dropped both the phone and the charger into his jacket pocket and snuck a sidelong glance at Tony.

Tony was staring out at the street where the car was pulling up on the street. He had changed clothes too, a blue shirt that poked out from underneath a dark blazer. Peter was pretty sure he had seen Tony wear the same clothes before. He turned back around to the street where the driver was now getting out of the car. The driver offered to take their bags: Tony let go of his, and only after a moment of hesitation did Peter let go of his too.

The driver opened the door, gestured inside.

“You first,” Tony said to Peter. He met Peter’s eyes, pressed his lips together into a tight not-quite smile. Peter wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he nodded and slid into the car without any protest. He pushed himself to the farthest end of the car, right up against the window. He was tempted to rest his head against the cool glass, but he didn’t.

He felt, more than heard, Tony slide into the car a moment later. The door shut a moment later, and then the driver was sliding into the seat in front of Peter. Without so much as another word, the car was starting forward, and they were pulling away from the neighborhood.

Peter kept his eyes out the window as the car passed the apartment buildings. He flicked his eyes once up to his own building—his own building, which suddenly didn’t quite feel like his anymore—and he tried to find his own window, but he had looked up a moment too late, because they had already passed his place.

Peter settled back into his seat. The sky wasn’t dark yet, not with the days becoming longer now. There were still families and couples walking around the streets, all of them looking a certain brand of generic domestic happiness. Children swinging in between their parents’ hands, a woman blowing a kiss to someone on the phone. Peter imagined whoever was on the other end of the phone catching the kiss, probably blowing one right back.

The vibrations of Peter’s phone was what drew his attention away from the window. He wasn’t sure he was grateful for the distraction, but he tugged out his phone anyways, making sure to keep the charger plugged in.

He looked down, his heart sinking at the amount of messages he had left unread—all of them from MJ, Ned, and May, all of them wringing their hands about why he hadn’t answered their calls or their messages. A moment later, Peter found the voicemails left in his inbox. Three from MJ, three from Ned, and four from May. Peter didn’t even know his inbox could hold ten voice messages.

He decided he would listen to the voice messages later. In the meantime, he focused on the texts:

_why aren’t you answering your phone??? i’m here if you need someone to talk to right now_

_are you okay?????_

_peter??? can we talk about this? please?_

Peter winced.

“Everything okay?”

Peter glanced over at Tony. He had been watching quietly, Peter knew, but just not trying to be obvious about it.

“Just…” Peter looked down at the screen. At the number of voicemails and text messages and missed phone calls. “Messages.”

“You should probably answer those.”

“Yeah,” Peter replied, turning his phone around in his hands. “Planning to. I was before, I mean. I just got—” He lifted his eyes up to Tony, found the bruise on his face. It was a light one, but Peter had the twisted feeling that it would darken later. Another reminder that this was all wrong. Peter looked back down at his phone. “Distracted,” he finished lamely.

“Ah.”

A silence.

And then Tony said, “We’ve got some time now, so…”

“Yeah.” Peter turned his phone back up towards himself so that he was actually facing the screen. He opened up the text messages and tapped out the beginning of a few messages: _sorry for not picking up, things have been kind of crazy._

 _Kind of crazy_ —understatement of the century.

Peter deleted that part.

 _Sorry for not picking up_ , he typed. _I’m okay._

Not really—he wasn’t really okay. None of this was okay, but he knew that if he wrote that he wasn’t okay, he would be attacked with three phone calls at once.

He kept that part.

 _I’ll call you later_ _tonight_ , he added. There. A silent promise to himself and to the others. He could do at least that much.

 _Don’t worry_ , Peter finished. He considered adding a smiling emoticon too, but he erased that, too. _That_ just seemed excessive.

Peter sent a variation of that text message to MJ, Ned, and May. A moment later, he got three messages back, all of them in varying levels of _please don’t scare me like that again_ and _glad you’re okay_ and _i’ll call you if you don’t call me first!_

All of them well-meaning, he knew. All of them trying.

Peter set his phone on silent and shoved it in his pocket. He let his head fall back against the seat again, tilted his eyes up to the car’s ceiling. Judging by the shadows and light dancing across the car’s ceiling, they were getting closer to the nicer parts of the city, to the hotel.

“Everything okay?” Tony repeated.

Peter managed to tilt his head towards Tony. “Yeah,” he replied, even though everything really wasn’t.

\--

“Home sweet home,” Tony said flatly, pushing open the door. “At least, for the next…for however long Nat thinks.”

Peter followed Tony into the suite and blinked.

Wooden floors, white couches, ultramodern lighting…the suite Natasha had picked out for them was _nice_. The suite was probably bigger than Peter and May’s apartment combined, with its long living room and attached kitchenette and dining room. An actual dining room, with its own ultramodern lights and a long wooden table with six polished wooden chairs. The windows overlooked the city, perfectly capturing and displaying the sunset.

“Well,” Tony said. “Nat wanted to keep us comfortable.”

Peter looked up at Tony.

Tony cleared his throat. “Anyways,” he said, gesturing down the length of the suite, “there should be bedrooms on either end. You pick first.”

 _Bedrooms_. Right.

On opposite ends of the suite—not next to each other.

“I don’t care which one I get,” Peter said.

“Of course you don’t,” Tony said. He dropped his duffel bag on the ground and turned around. “I’m going to get some ice,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “When I come back, you’ll have chosen a bedroom.”

“Wait—” Peter started. “That’s not fair—”

“Pick a bedroom,” Tony said over his shoulder. “Back in a second.”

And then he was gone.

Peter blew out a breath. He was alone in the suite.

He looked down the length of the suite and set his suitcase down. He walked to right end of the suite and found the bedroom—a large bed, some red painting hanging above, two glowing light fixtures. An attached bathroom.

Peter walked to the other end of the suite and found the exact same details: the same large bed, the same red painting, the same two glowing light fixtures. An equally large bathroom.

Peter padded back to the center of the suite where his suitcase and Tony’s duffel still were.

And then Peter picked up his suitcase and headed to the bedroom on the right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> I am also on [tumblr](https://charonsdescent.tumblr.com/) if you would ever like to scream some more about starker!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know,” Tony replied, his mind briefly flashing to—entwined fingers, warm eyes, head tilting forward—

Tony didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t really need ice, but he had seen the ice machine on the way here. But now he was working the machine, only half paying attention to what he was actually doing. He heard faint laughter from down the hall, and a moment later, a still-giggling couple walked past him.

Tony got out the last of the ice and looked down the hall to where the suite’s door was. He had to at least semi-appreciate Natasha and Pepper’s ability to pull the suite on short notice, but at the same time—

It was fine. The bedrooms were on the other ends of the suite.

Tony looked down at the small bag of ice in his hand. The side of his face still hurt, as did his eye. He was pretty sure his bruises would look worse tomorrow morning, but he hadn’t been lying to Peter. He _had_ been through worse before.

Tony started to lift the big of ice to his face, dropped his hand back to his side.

Tony turned back to the door at the other end of the hall. He wondered if Peter had chosen room yet. If Tony should bother walking to the suite now. He didn’t even know how much time had passed—he hadn’t bothered checking the time when he walked out. He didn’t think he had any real reason to, and it wasn’t like he was thinking about the time, anyways. He had just been thinking about needing to get out of the suite, because things felt—

Tony tightened his grip around the bag of ice hard enough to feel something puncture through the plastic. He hissed, jostling the bag around in his hands so he wouldn’t spill the ice cubes all over the place. He took a step away from the ice machine, and he was just starting to get a better grip on the ice when his phone buzzed.

“What?” Tony asked, grimacing.

“Did you two check in?” Natasha asked.

“Just a few minutes ago,” Tony replied. He stepped away from the ice machine so that he was fully in the hallway.

“Great,” Natasha said. “Just checking. How’s Peter?”

Tony shot a glance to the door. “He’s exploring the suite,” he decided to say.

“I asked how he was, not what he was doing,” Natasha replied.

“I don’t know,” Tony replied, his mind briefly flashing to— _entwined fingers, warm eyes, head tilting forward_ —

“I don’t know,” Tony repeated, turning to the wall. He rested his head against the surface, as though that alone could chase the image out of his head. “He’s—” He heard Peter’s quiet voice, saying _he hurt you_ —“he was a little upset. Worried.”

“Wouldn’t blame him,” Natasha said. There was some rustling in the other end of the phone. “You two settling in okay? Do you guys like the suite?”

“Yeah,” Tony decides to reply. “Peter’s choosing a room. View’s nice.”

“Good,” Natasha said. After a beat, she added, “I was considering putting you two in separate rooms entirely, but the suite was up there for grabs. Plus, I figured Peter could probably use a familiar face right now.”

Tony looked down at the ground.

“Anyways,” Natasha said, “I don’t need to tell you about the amenities. Tell Peter to have fun. Keep him distracted.” Some more rustling and then, “The restaurant’s not that bad, and room service can be pretty punctual around this hour. And then there’s the parks nearby, and the pool—”

“Have you ever considered doing marketing work for hotels?” Tony asked flatly. “You’d be great at it.”

“Very funny,” Natasha said. “But you get the point, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Tony replied, looking back at the door. “Keep Peter distracted.” He paused and then asked, “And what are you doing?”

“Right now, I’m looking into Quentin Beck’s personal history,” Natasha replied. Tony heard more rustling and then the distant click-clack of fingers hitting a keyboard. Then, quietly, Natasha added, “Some of the stuff he’s been up to…he’s a guy who’s got some interesting hobbies.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Besides the douchebag eyebrows?” Natasha snorted. “There’s just some stuff here from way back. A disciplinary hearing that…” Some more click-clacking and then, in a disgusted voice, Natasha finished, “Which he got clean free from. Typical.”

“A disciplinary hearing?”

“From high school,” Natasha replied. “And then…yeah, some stuff in college.”

Tony was certain that those documents weren’t public, but he had long ago given up on asking Natasha how and wheee she would find those clues. Right now, he just felt sick. “And he just…”

“Got away free? Yeah,” Natasha replied, the disgust palpable in her voice. Then, quieter, probably more to herself than to Tony, Natasha added, “It’s a miracle Peter stayed away from him for so long.” A sigh. “He shouldn’t have any idea that you two are at the hotel, but just in case, tell Peter to turn off his phone’s location services if he hasn’t already. You, too.”

Tony checked his phone. He had already the location services turned off—the first probably decent thing that he had discovered for the entirety of the day.

“Okay,” Tony said, pushing his phone back to his ear. “Anything else?”

“Eat, sleep,” Natasha replied. “Don’t do anything stupid. Make sure Peter doesn’t do anything stupid either.”

Tony squeezed the bag of ice in his hand again. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he repeated. “Sounds manageable.”

A short laugh from Natasha, and then the call ended.

Tony pushed his phone into his pocket.

He squeezed the bag of ice again, not caring that an ice cube had slipped out and cooled on his palm. He took a few steps forward, and only when he was two steps away from the door did he remember to tug out his room key. After wiping his slightly damp hand against his pants, Tony wrestled the slim card out of his bag pocket. He tapped the key against the door handle, and with a flash of green light and a quiet click, Tony pushed open the door.

“Tony.” Peter short up from the grey couch at the center of the suite, his hands shoving themselves into his pockets.

“Peter,” Tony replied, closing the door behind himself. The sound the door made was too loud in the suite.

“I chose my room,” Peter said, jerking his head towards the right side of the suite. “Down there.”

“Great,” Tony replied. “Points for decision-making skills. Ready for more?” He bent down to pick up his duffel. “Nat just called—she said the food’s good. We can go down to the restaurant or do room service. Your choice.”

When he looked back up, he found Peter biting down on his bottom lip, brows slightly furrowed together. After a moment, Tony asked, “Room service?”

A slightly embarrassed look but a nod.

“Okay,” Tony replied, ignoring his own burst of relief. “There should be a…” He set down his duffel and walked around Peter to the coffee table. He picked up the thick binder sitting there and flipped it over to where the dining tab started. “Check out the menu. I’ll put my stuff away.”

With that, he walked back over to his duffel. He was aware of the ice cube that had almost completely melted in his hand, but he didn’t bother wiping his hand down as he walked forwards the left side of the suite.

He found the bedroom: queen-sized bed, a red painting propped above the headboard. Tony sat his duffel in front of the bed and contemplated sinking right into the mattress right there, but he was hungry too.

He walked back into the main part of the suite to find Peter sitting cross-legged on the couch, looking down at the binder with still-furrowed eyebrows. His curls spilled over his forehead, and Peter distractedly brushed them away.

“Found anything you like yet?” Tony asked, about to sit on the other side of the couch—but at the last second, he opted for sitting at the opposite couch instead.

Peter glanced up. “I think so,” he said, pushing the binder across the coffee table.

“That wasn’t convincing,” Tony said, but he still picked up the binder.

“I know what I want.”

“That’s better.” Tony flipped over a page. He looked up at Peter and looked back down at the menu, not quite reading the words. “Nat also said that you should turn off the location services on your phone—just in case.” After a too-long pause, Tony added, “She doesn’t think Beck will find us here, but—”

“It’s okay,” Peter replied. “It’s already…off.”

Just as Natasha had said it would.

Tony nodded, flipping the page back over. His eyes slid over the words, and then he closed the binder. “Right,” he said, reaching for the phone sitting at the small table besides the couch. “You wanna tell me what you…”

“Um…” For a moment, Peter looked lost, and Tony was about to ask if Peter needed to see the menu again when he said quickly, “The burger.” Another pause, and then Peter asked, “You?”

Tony didn’t even remember seeing a burger on the menu. He just nodded and replied, “Same.”

And then he dialed the number for room service. His call was picked up right after a single ring, and Tony only had to give the order once before the person on the other end was promising the food to be up in twenty minutes. Natasha was right-the food came faster at this hour.

“Twenty minutes,” Tony said, setting the phone back down on the receiver, even though he knew Peter had probably heard the conversation.

“Sounds good.”

They lapsed back into silence. Tony was aware of the shadows and light dancing across the whole suite—a result of the sun finally deciding to make its descent. The lights in the room seemed to glow a little brighter too.

Tony settled for turning around to the windows. “Like the view?” he asked after a while, gesturing halfheartedly to the cityscape.

“It’s nice,” Peter said. “We’re pretty high up.”

“Ever been to the Empire State Building?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied, and Tony heard the shift of movement against the couch. When he turned around, Peter had stretched his legs against the rest of his couch, his head resting against an armrest. But his eyes were turned to the windows, the fading light reflecting in his dark eyes. “I actually went there on a field trip when I was a kid. Grew up in a Queens.”

Tony remembered that from his brief research— _research_ , that word twisted his stomach now.

 _But that was different,_ Tony thought. He had just been looking up Peter because he had been curious of his neighbor, not like—

“You?” Peter asked.

“Grew up right here,” Tony replied. “Right in the city.”

“So the Empire State Building was in your backyard.”

“More like a few blocks away from my front yard, but same idea.”

Peter let out a soft sound that might have been a laugh or a sigh. Tony couldn’t tell, but when Peter’s eyes lifted to meet his, he found that he had to look away. He focused on one of the other skyscrapers.

“What’s the highest you’ve ever been?”

“You have _got_ to know what that sounds like,” Tony said.

“You know what I mean.”

Tony paused, trying to think. “Shanghai Tower,” he said after a while.

“Wow.”

A beat. “You?”

“ _Not_ Shanghai Tower.”

“Come on, you asked me. Now I have to ask you.”

Peter shrugged at the ceiling. “Probably the Empire State Building,” he said. “I went to the Eiffel Tower once, though, and that was pretty high up.”

“Eiffel Tower counts.”

Another sound that could have been a laugh or a sigh.

Tony couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Neither did Peter, it seemed.

They watched the sun set.

—

Their food came five minutes early.

Tony and Peter both didn’t feel like sitting at the dining table, so they settled for eating on the couches, their plates balanced on their knees. The lights adjusted against the sun, brightening the room with each passing second.

“Fancy,” was Peter’s only comment.

“Impressed?”

“A little,” Peter admitted.

“I’ll tell Nat,” Tony said.

A brief smile at that, and then they were both looking back down at their food.

“What’s she doing?” Peter asked after a while. “Has she…”

“She’s doing some looking right now,” Tony replied. “Digging around.” He decides not to divulge in exactly how much digging she had done so far. Or the information that she uncovered about Quentin Beck’s past. He was t sure if Peter knew that part. And if Peter _did_ know, Tony wasn’t sure he wanted Peter to relearn that knowledge.

Tony changed the subject. “Did you contact your aunt?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied. “I sent a text.”

That seemed to be as much Peter wanted to share.

So Tony nodded.

Peter nodded back.

They both looked back down at their food.

Again.

“Is your…face better?” Peter asked.

“Loads,” Tony lies.

Peter didn’t seem to believe him. “I’m—”

Tony set his burger down on his plate. “Don’t,” he interrupted. “If you apologize again—” He fried not to think about what had happened the last time Peter had apologized. Peter, pushing himself up on his knees in front of Tony, hands resting in the side of his face, fingers tangling together—

“Just don’t,” Tony said, trying to look past Peter. And looking past Peter was difficult. His eyes always got in the way. Peter’s wife, dark eyes that seemed to swallow the whole world. That should have been creepy, Tony figured. But it somehow wasn’t. Peter couldn’t be creepy. “Okay? It’s not like you were the one who threw the punch. That was my choice.” Tony picked you his burger again, not because he was hungry, but just because he needed to focus on something that wasn’t Peter’s eyes.

“And don’t feel too bad,” Tony added after a heartbeat. “I managed to get _some_ punches in. Before Natasha stepped in.”

“Still.”

“There’s no _still_ ,” Tony said. “Stop feeling bad about something you didn’t do.” He adjusted himself in his seat, forced himself to look up at Peter again, because he had the feeling eye contact was probably important to get his point across. “And if you really need another reason, _I_ don’t feel sorry for throwing the punch, so you shouldn’t either.”

A silence.

“You can’t mean that,” Peter said.

“I certainly can,” Tony replied.

“But—”

“No _but_ s, no take-backs,” Tony said, taking a bite out of his burger. “Done deal.”

Peter looked like he was deciding whether to throw the couch cushion at Tony or not. That was the only way to describe Peter’s expression now: the furrowed eyebrows, the narrowed eyes, the pressed-together lips.

“Eat,” Tony said, nodding at Peter’s plate.

Peter ate.

  
—

After pushing the empty plates out of the room, Tony found Peter still curled up against the couch, his head resting against the arm and eyes not particularly looking at anything. He jerked up once Tony sat down on the couch across from him.

“Are you tired?” Tony asked.

“Not really.”

Tony waited three seconds before saying, “There’s a pool up here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Another three seconds passed.

“Do you want to…”

“Sure. Let me just…I don’t have a swimsuit.”

“Neither do I.”

“We can’t go swimming in our clothes.”

“Why not?”

Another three seconds.

“Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want—”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

—

“This is really weird,” Peter said, kicking the water with his feet. They had abandoned their shoes near one of the deck chairs, and despite the fact that there was no one swimming at this hour, the lights had still been on, making the indoor pool glow teal. “I feel like we just broke in.”

“Never went for a night swim?” Tony asked, kicking the water back at Peter. They were both standing at the edge of the pool, near the shallower end. Tony didn’t care if he got the ankles of his pants wet. Peter had relaxed just the slightest, just enough to kick Tony back with some more earnest.

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Peter said now, shaking water from his foot. “But that was, like, in _high school_.”

“So?”

“So,” Peter said, kicking water at Tony again, “so…” His voice drifted.

“My point stands.”

“I’m thinking.”

“My point still stands,” Tony said, just barely missing Peter.

Peter rolled his eyes. Tony hadn’t thought Peter was capable of rolling his eyes. Smirking, Tony kicked in Peter’s direction again, this time deliberately missing Peter. If Peter knew that Tony was missing on purpose, he didn’t mention it.

They kicked at each other some more until both of their legs were tired, and then they sat down on the pool ledge, their feet dipped into the water. Tony could feel the ripples from Peter’s feet moving around in slow circles. Tony made sure to move his feet in the opposite direction of Peter’s so that they wouldn’t accidentally knock into each other.

“How’re you feeling?” Tony asked. His voice echoed around the room.

Peter’s face was lit by the teal reflection of the pool. He had his hands perched at the ledge, elbows locked and shoulders slightly hunched forward.

He didn’t answer right away. Tony didn’t expect him to.

Tony kicked some water down the lane, watched the droplets land.

“Do you really want to know?” Peter asked. His voice was barely louder than the soft _plink-plink-plink_ of the water droplets still landing in the pool. But there was something else too—not just the quiet, but there was a tightness to Peter’s voice, as though whatever words were about to come out next had been cooked in him for a long time.

Tony looked at Peter. “Of course I do,” he replied. His voice was still loud enough to echo around the room.

Peter lifted his eyes up to Tony. His eyes looked lighter, now that they were both hovering over the pool. Peter’s eyes lingered over Tony’s face, his cheek. Tony was tempted to turn away, show Peter his other side—the not bruising side, but he had the feeling that would shut Peter away completely.

“Peter,” Tony said. “Of _course_ I do.”

Peter dropped his eyes from Tony’s face. Dropped them to the pool.

For a moment, Tony thought Peter wasn’t going to speak—that he had lost him somehow.

But then Peter said hoarsely, quietly, almost too quiet for Tony to even hear above the near-silent ripples of the pool water, “Tired. Just…really tired.” He kicked up a weak little spray of water and added, “For a second, I thought that…I don’t know. That things might…” His voice drifted.

“That things might what?” Tony asked.

Peter was still looking down into the water. “Get better,” he said after a while. “I thought things would get better.” He kicked the water, some of it landing on Tony’s pants.

Tony kicked back.

Peter kicked back again.

“They will,” Tony said. “Get better.”

Peter looked at Tony.

“They will,” Tony repeated. He suddenly wanted to say _I promise_ —but that felt insincere. He couldn’t promise anything. And he was sure Peter didn’t need him to promise anything. Peter wasn’t an idiot.

So he just said it a third time: “they will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so if you’re following my tumblr, you know this already, but basically, my power/WiFi is out. We’re getting short little bursts of power, so in that time, I was able to re-write the chapter from my laptop to my phone to update for you guys. Things will be back to normal in a few days, but if you saw some typos, that’s why. :( 
> 
> Anyways, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Got you back,” Peter said, letting go of Tony’s wrist.

Peter couldn’t remember how to speak. Not at first, not with Tony looking at him like that—like Peter would disappear if he looked away. And for a bizarre second, Peter wondered if he really _would_ just disappear if he looked away right now. He imagined some invisible shield falling over him, like the kind behind the scenes in _Star Wars_. He imagined that shield dropping, concealing him, leaving Tony to stare at only empty space where Peter had been just seconds ago.

But Tony’s eyes were still trained on him, and suddenly, Peter had the idea that even if he looked away, Tony wouldn’t let him disappear. He _hadn’t_ let Peter disappear, period. Not when Peter had told him to go away, forget about him.

“What do you want to do?” Tony asked at last, adjusting his hands at the pool’s edge. The water lapped over his fingers. Peter’s fingers, which were already curled over the edge.

“What do you mean?” Peter asked.

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Tony said. He flicked some water down the pool with his fingers. “What do you want to do—in five minutes, in an hour, in a week, in a year. Things you want to do. Places you want to see. Books you want to read. Anything.”

Peter turned back to the pool. He kicked up some water. Dropped his feet back into the pool. “I don’t know,” he said after a while. “I used to think it would be cool to study abroad. When I was in school. Never got to.” He couldn’t—he hadn’t because he had been…elsewhere. Mind floating elsewhere. Caught up in a whirlwind of fake smiles and secret messages and scarves wrapped too tightly around his throat even in the spring.

“Yeah?” Tony asked. “Where?”

“I don’t know,” Peter replied. “I think anywhere in Europe would have been cool. But I really wanted to see New Zealand a few times.” He kicked up some more water. “ _Lord of the Rings_.”

“Should have known you’d like Tolkien,” Tony said, his own kick of water mixing with Peter’s. “What else?”

“I don’t know,” Peter repeated, but then he found that was a lie. He remembered MJ and Ned’s disappointed faces whenever he turned down going to the park, going to the movie theaters. “I think it would be cool to see a movie. Go to the park.” He looked down at his feet. They looked distorted under the pool water. “I know that’s not—”

“No, keep going,” Tony said. He shifted a little on his hands, and for a moment, Peter thought Tony was going to sway closer, but he didn’t. Peter almost wished he had come closer. “Travel to New Zealand, go to the park, go see a movie. These are good. What else?”

“Um,” Peter’s eyes drifted down to Tony’s hands. They were still clutched around the pool’s edge. If Peter shifted his hand even a little bit, he could probably knock it against Tony’s.

Peter pulled his hand closer to himself.

He tried to think of something else to say—anything else, but he kept coming up empty. He tried to remember what he must have wanted to do when he was in college, before everything became the way it did. There was something mildly alarming about that, not remembering much before his senior year. The years just seemed like some blur of color that was too far out of Peter’s reach. He distinctly remembered streaking across Boston Commons, standing in front of Charles River at the esplanade by the BU brownstones.

“Go on a walk by a river,” Peter said.

“Any river?” Tony asked.

Peter thought about Charles River again. He almost missed Boston and Cambridge then: the bright Citgo sign, the two upper lit floors of the Prudential Tower. Quincy Market, where Peter couldn’t remember much except getting balloon animals with MJ and Ned and watching a woman play the _Game of Thrones_ theme on a violin. Harvard Bookstore—not the Coop, but the store on the same exact street of bakeries and coffee shops and ice cream parlors.

And Peter suddenly hated Quentin too: not for all the things he did, stupidly, but for making Peter suddenly feel sick to the stomach at going back to Boston or Cambridge ever again. And not just Boston and Cambridge—he had made Peter hate being at May’s, being with his friends. Made Peter hate it until he couldn’t feel anything but that hatred, hollowing him out and icing him over until he couldn’t feel anything except his own nails trying to claw out whatever marks had been left on himself.

“Any river,” Peter said.

“Okay,” Tony said. “That’s four things so far. Can you think of a fifth? Just to round things out.”

“Five things,” Peter said, daring a quick glance at Tony. “That’s a lot of things.”

“I know you can think of another,” Tony said, flicking some water at Peter. The water landed on the bottom hem of Peter’s shirt, but he didn’t mind. He flicked some water back.

Peter tried to think. He looked back at fuzzy memories, blurry memories which he wished he could get back. Bring back to full focus without the haze of Quentin getting in the way. He flicked the water again, and then a different memory surfaced: a more recent one, but…

A dance. A dance at a wedding.

Peter had slept the whole time. And he remembered being woken by Tony—banging his head back against Tony’s chin, and then falling asleep on the taxi ride back home. No, not home. Back to Tony’s apartment. That was where they had ridden back to, and then Peter had run out…

“Dance at a wedding,” Peter heard himself say at last, and he found himself looking into the pool again, intent on the way his ankles knocked into each other under some gentle ripple in the water.

“Dance at a wedding,” Tony repeated, and Peter couldn’t bring himself to look at the expression Tony must be wearing now. A few seconds of silence passed—an agonizing few seconds that felt more like an eternity than anything else, and then Tony asked, “As the groom or…?”

“No,” Peter said quickly, regretting saying anything at all. “Not like—no. I’m not saying I want to get _married_.”

“You don’t?”

“ _No_ ,” Peter said, heat rushing up his face. “I mean…I meant as a guest. Dance at a friend’s wedding. Or something. I have some friends who’ll probably get married before me anyways, and I meant that it would be nice to dance at _their_ wedding as a—” He made the mistake of lifting his head up to Tony’s face. Found Tony’s lips twitching, and Peter wasn’t sure if he wanted to shove Tony or himself into the water.

“Peter,” Tony said.

Peter swallowed. “Yeah?”

Tony smiled: full smile now, his eyes crinkling a little at the edges. Peter wasn’t sure if he had ever seen Tony smile the way he did now. Peter had seen the sarcastic smirk, the tight lips-pressed-together-smile, the brief, up-tilted twitch of a lip. But this smile was different—quieter and yet—

_Nononono—_

Peter looked away quickly. Wondered if he would seem too obvious if he splashed water on his face: that was how much he burned, felt like he was burning. That was how it felt to have _that_ smile from Tony—like Peter was burning a little bit at a time.

“Give it a year,” Tony said.

“What?”

Tony kicked some water Peter’s way. “In a year. Do all those things in a year. Travel. Go see a movie. Go to the park. Walk by a river. Dance at a friend’s wedding.”

“I don’t think any of my friends are going to get married within a year,” Peter mumbled, because that was the only thing he could think to say.

“Pepper and Nat are getting married. They’ll probably invite you. Or you’ll be my plus-one again.”

A _year_ —Peter tried to imagine himself still talking to Tony in a year. A whole additional year of Peter living across from Tony. A whole additional year of Tony waving at him through the window, a whole additional year of Tony leaning against Peter’s door.

Peter hated that squeeze in his chest. The pathetic, hopeful squeeze in his chest that filled him with _want_. Tony, looking up at Peter from the couch, fingers twining around each other, lips—

“I’m a lousy plus-one,” Peter said, kicking Tony back. He kicked a little harder than he meant to: some water hit Tony’s face, and he ducked away in time for the water to get in his hair instead. “Sorry.”

“I’m getting you back for that,” Tony replied, running his hand into the water. Peter only had a second to brace himself before he was getting sprayed with water, and then he was lifting his hands to his face, trying to squirm away, and—

Peter wasn’t sure how he lost balance. Just that he did, and suddenly the cold water had raced up his legs, his stomach, and he heard Tony’s surprised shout—“ _Peter!_ ”

Peter wiped his face with his hands, blinking the chlorine out of his eyes. Tony was staring at him, lips parted and eyes wide, and Peter stood up. The water only came to his waist, but _still_ , it was _cold_.

And maybe it was because of that shock of cold that had Peter wrapping his hands around Tony’s wrists and tugging him down with him.

Tony let out a sharp cry, but then there was a splash, and Peter was reeling back at the water that sprayed up between them. “ _Parker_ —” Tony wiped at his face, gave him an incredulous look. “What was— _fuck_ , it’s cold—”

“Got you back,” Peter said, letting go of Tony’s wrist. He took a few steps back in the pool, his jeans heavy against his legs. It made his movements sloppy, clumsy, but so were Tony’s, and then Tony was looking at him with that same mixture of surprise and exasperation. And Peter suddenly felt that burning sensation again, in his face, up his neck.

They stood there, a few steps apart from each other.

“See? Night swimming,” Tony said at last, flicking at the water again.

Peter glanced around the pool. “Do you think someone will…”

“Nah,” Tony replied, sinking a little deeper into the water—just enough so that the water was up to his chest. “Besides, it’s occupied.”

“It’s going to suck getting out,” Peter said, wading back a few more steps.

“Are you cold?”

“Not as much,” Peter replied. He took a few more steps back, felt the slant of the pool floor below him. He shivered as the water inched higher and higher up his body. The water got up to his chest, then his shoulders, then his chin. He stopped at the very edge, right where he knew if he went any farther, the water would swallow up his head.

“You’re going to freeze when you get out,” Tony said, pushing himself off the pool wall. Peter watched the small ripples in the water as Tony waded towards him.

“So are you,” Peter replied as Tony came to a stop in front of him. Still a few steps away. If Peter gave himself a good kick forward, he could probably barrel right into Tony’s shoulder.

“We’ll take towels,” Tony said. “That’s what they’re there for, anyways.”

Peter nodded. He drifted backwards a little, letting his arms unfold out from under him. He ducked his head under the water for no other reason than he had to do something—anything—to cool down his face. When he re-emerged, Tony was shaking his head.

“Now you’ll be an icicle when you get out,” Tony said. “Icicles in your hair, everything. The whole nine yards.”

Peter tried to smile. He shivered instead.

“Cold now?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to…”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, then.”

Peter followed Tony down the pool, aware of their matching steps, the matching sways of their arms under the water. And then they were both climbing up the pool ladder, and Peter ignored the way Tony’s shirt clung to him. He looked down at his feet in the water until he heard Tony’s footsteps making for the towels.

Peter hoisted himself up a moment later, instantly shivering in the suddenly much, much cooler air. He had just stepped onto the tiled floor when Tony was suddenly in front of him again, towel in hand.

“Here,” Tony said, slinging the towel around Peter’s shoulders.

“Thanks,” Peter said, rubbing the towel over his hair briefly, then letting it fall back around himself.

“We look great,” Tony said. He turned around, dragged their shoes in front of themselves. They sat down on the ground, towels still piled over their shoulders, and then they were both picking out their socks, just slipping in their shoes barefooted because what was the point anyways.

And then they were both walking out, their shoes making just the slightest of squeaks against the ground as they walked through the hallway. A moment later, their steps were muffled by the carpet, and Peter felt the blast of the air conditioner ruffle his hair. He rubbed his towel over his head again.

Tony pressed the button to take them back down to their floor. Stepped back next to Peter.

“Which one do you think will come up first?” Tony asked, gesturing at the elevators. There were three of them.

“Middle one,” Peter replied automatically.

“I’m calling that one,” Tony said, pointing at the elevator to the far right.

The elevator on the far left opened its doors.

They both walked inside, exchanging just the briefest of glances at each other—a shrug, a _oh, well_ look. Peter pushed himself to the far back of the elevator, leaned against the railing as Tony pushed the button to their floor. He could see his blurred reflection on the doors, warps of color that reminded Peter of the cartoons of people with super speed.

And Tony was looking at his reflection too, his head tilted to the side. His corresponding blur of color moved with him. “See anything interesting?” he asked.

Peter glanced over at Tony. At his profile: the spot where his hair met his temples, the lashes of his eyes, the curve of his lip, his jaw.

“No,” Peter said.

\--

Peter still smelled a little like chlorine once he got out of the shower, but he didn’t mind it. He sat down on his bed, still drying his hair with a towel. Somewhere across the suite, he knew Tony had to be doing the same.

 _Don’t_ , Peter thought.

He reached for his phone. Checked all the text messages, and then he remembered that he was supposed to call May and his friends.

Before he could change his mind, he tapped in May’s number.

May picked up on the first ring.

“Peter,” May said, relieved. “Oh my _God_ —baby, are you okay? What’s going on?”

Peter pushed himself off the bed, trying to keep his voice as casual as possible as he said, “Everything’s okay. I’m okay.” He looked at his suitcase in the corner. He had tugged out his fresh change of clothes, but he didn’t think to unpack anything more than he had to. “I’m…” He looked out the window. “I’m not at my place right now. A hotel,” he added quickly.

“And Beck—”

Peter tugged the curtains closed. He turned around to face his room. His suitcase was still sitting there—

“My neighbor has some friends,” Peter said. He found a closet. He opened the door and blinked. A _big_ closet. A walk-in closet. Why would people staying at hotels need a walk-in closet _this_ big? Peter could probably take up less than one rack or shelf.

Still, he tugged in his suitcase behind himself, turned on the light.

“Your neighbor?” May asked, confused. And then, after a beat, she asked, “Your cute neighbor? Steve?”

 _Steve_ —Peter had forgotten that May had called him his cute neighbor. He had almost forgotten that he had used to stutter and blush on the few times he had been around Steve. That felt like an entirely different life.

“No,” Peter said. “Um…the guy who owns the apartment. His name’s Tony.”

“And Tony…has friends who—”

Peter closed the door behind himself. “Beck came,” he said. He closed his eyes, heard May’s sharp intake of breath. “He actually came this time. Showed up. I was with Tony and his friends, and…” He suddenly wished he had been sitting down.

So he sat down. “He was there,” Peter said, looking at the carpet. At the suitcase sitting in front of him.

“What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything to me,” Peter said, remembering Quentin’s twisted smile. There wasn’t any touching, and Peter hadn’t gotten _hurt_ , but—

“ _kids like him_ —”

And everything came barreling back into Peter. He saw Tony launching himself out of the car, saw Tony’s fist fly back. He saw Tony crashing right into Quentin, saw Quentin roll him down to the pavement, heard the fist connect with Tony’s face—

“Peter?”

“Yeah,” Peter said hoarsely. “I’m still here.”

“What happened?”

“He…” Peter dropped his forehead against his knees. “Tony got out of the car. And they fought. And…” Peter couldn’t remember how he had gotten out of the car. He just remembered unbuckling his seatbelt and practically jumping out, and then it had been Pepper out with him, and then Natasha was swearing and running out too—

“Tony’s friend took care of it,” Peter finished lamely. “I don’t know what she does, but she…seems like she’s going to help out.”

“So right now we’re—”

“ _We’re_?” May repeated.

“Tony and I—”

“You two are in a hotel room together? Is he there right now?”

“No, May, we’re in a suite—he’s in the other room—I think he’s still taking a shower.”

Silence on the other end of the phone.

“May?”

“I’m glad that Tony’s friend is helping,” May said. “I’m glad that this Tony’s helping.” But her voice sounded odd, disconnected. “I just…”

“What?” Peter asked.

“I’m _glad_ ,” May repeated, but her voice was quieter, sadder. “But I just…Peter, you know that I would do anything for you, right? I know I can’t put you in a hotel, and I can’t track down names or addresses, but—”

“I know, May,” Peter replied. He tightened his grip on the phone. “I _know_.”

“I’m just your aunt, you know?” May said quietly. “And this isn’t about me—this _isn’t about me_ , Peter—but I want to be there. You know that, right?”

Peter’s chest tightened. “Yeah,” he replied. “I know.”

“Okay,” May said. A sigh on the other end of the phone. “MJ and Ned are worrying their brains out too, you know.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, looking down at his knees. “I know.”

“You should probably call them.”

“I will,” Peter replied.

“Okay.” Another pause. “I love you.”

“Love you too, May.”

“Okay. Call them. Call me later. Updates, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too,” Peter repeated, and then they both hung up.

But Peter didn’t call MJ and Ned—not right away, because the suitcase was still sitting in front of him. He would unpack his things first, call them later. Just to space out the amount of harried questions. He flipped open his suitcase, and he was about to get started when he heard something else—

Peter frowned, sitting up. He could hear hurried footsteps, and then—

“Peter? Peter, where—”

A door flung open: Peter’s bedroom, and then Tony’s voice again: “ _Peter_ —”

Peter stood up. He opened the closet door, and then he found Tony standing in the center of Peter’s bedroom, eyes wide and chest rising and falling quickly. Too quickly, and Peter just stared at Tony as his expression morphed from one of panic— _this was what Tony looked like when he was panicked_ , Peter thought—to relief and—

“Is everything okay?” Peter asked slowly, pushing his phone into his pocket.

“Is everything—” Tony closed his eyes, reopened them. “I called you just a few seconds ago—didn’t you hear me?”

“I was talking to my aunt,” Peter said, gesturing behind himself. “And unpacking.” He looked back at Tony. “Are you…”

“I’m fine,” Tony said. “I just—for a second—I thought—” He pushed his hands up to his face, dropped them. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and Peter wondered if he wanted him to. Say anything. If he wanted—

“I’ll…leave you to your packing,” Tony said. “Unpacking.” He gestured at the closet, the same halfhearted gesture that Peter had given just a moment ago.

And then he was walking out of the room, and Peter—Peter saw him leaving, back to the other side of the suite, and suddenly, Peter—Peter imagined himself grabbing Tony’s wrist, tugging him back into the room. _Don’t leave_ , he wanted to say.

“Were you scared?” was what came out instead.

Tony paused in the doorway, and Peter’s heart stopped.

“Because you don’t have to be,” Peter said quickly. “I’m not going to do anything stupid like run out. If that was what you were worried about.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I mean it.”

Tony turned around.

Peter shrugged. “I just thought you should know,” he said. “So you can stop worrying.”

A short huff from Tony.

“What?” Peter asked.

Tony flicked his eyes over to Peter. “I think we both know that that isn’t going to be happening anytime soon,” he said. He started to turn back around, walk out the door, but then, changing his mind, he turned back around. “Or is it really that simple to you?”

“Which part?”

“You know which part.”

“No,” Peter lied. “I don’t.”

Tony let out another huff. He turned away briefly, rubbed a hand over his face. Peter suddenly felt the urge to walk over, tug that hand down. And the last time Peter had held Tony’s hand—if that counted as holding, _but did that count as holding?_

He stayed put.

Tony dropped his hand to his side, looked at Peter. And when he did, Peter found that there was something else in those dark eyes—not annoyance, but a kind of exasperation. Desperation, the kind that leaked straight into Tony’s voice as he said, “I can’t just _stop worrying—_ it’s not like I can just turn off the tap like _that_.” He snapped his fingers.

Peter didn’t know what he was doing, not as he said, “But I’m asking you to.”

“You’re _asking_ me—” There was definite frustration in Tony’s voice now, a growl of it right under the surface. And then Tony was looking at Peter again. “Why do you keep asking me to?”

“I don’t know,” Peter replied. He didn’t know. Just that he could suddenly hear May’s voice again, hear that other kind of worry seep through his head, and he could feel the heat of his phone in his pocket, the heat that told him that there were other people with different but just as deep brands of worry. Peter felt like it would burn a hole right in him. “I just need you to stop.”

And Peter heard something else—Tony’s voice, asking him for things he wanted to do later. Quiet, only their voices echoing around the pool—

“Would you?” Tony asked.

Peter re-focused on Tony.

“Would _you_ stop?” Tony asked. “If someone you knew told you to stop worrying, would you be able to turn off all that worry like a tap, Parker?”

 _No_.

“That’s not the point,” Peter said.

“Then _explain_ ,” Tony snapped, pushing himself off the door frame. “Because right now, Peter, all I’m thinking is that we’ve done this before. This part, see?” He gestured between Peter and himself. “Me, worrying. You, telling me to stop. Rinse and repeat. Over and over and over until one of us says or does something we regret.” His hand dropped to the front of his pants. “So?” he asked. “What’ll it be?”

When Peter didn’t answer, Tony sighed. Pushed a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he said tiredly. “Okay.”

And then he started to turn around.

“Where are you going?” Peter asked, hating how quickly those words formed, how quickly his heart sank at seeing Tony’s retreating back.

“You need a minute,” Tony replied. “And I need a minute.”

He was halfway to the door, then at the doorframe—

 _Don’t leave_ , Peter thought.

 _Don’t_ —

Peter took a step, two, three—

And then he grabbed Tony’s wrist.

“Peter—”

Peter saw Tony’s eyes fix down on him, his lips parting a little in surprise, and then they were suddenly just standing in the doorway, Peter still clinging onto Tony’s wrist like that would be enough to keep him here.

And Peter wanted—he _wanted_ , for the first time in a long, long while—for him to stay right here.

And he wondered if Tony knew that too, and Peter hoped he did, because then he was pushing himself up, finding the heat of Tony’s mouth clash against his. And they were clashing—that was the only way to describe the way they found each other, with teeth knocking together and Peter tugging at Tony’s bottom lip because he wanted him here—

Peter knocked Tony back into the doorframe, heard Tony’s quiet gasp like he was running out of air. And for a terrifying second, Peter wondered if this was where Tony would push him away—but then Peter felt hands in his hair, warm and needing and wanting so much that Peter’s head spun.

Peter opened his mouth again for Tony, pushed himself up, felt the bristles of Tony’s facial hair scrape against his skin. His hands searched for Tony’s shirt, his shoulders—something solid to hold onto, something to keep him tethered. Peter found the back of Tony’s neck instead—and he tugged him down, let Tony push Peter to the other side of the doorframe.

Peter let out a quiet hiss—more out of surprise than out of pain, and then he wished he hadn’t, because Tony faltered, the hands in Peter’s hair slowing, the hesitation—

“Don’t stop,” Peter whispered, dragging Tony down again, this time by the shirt collar. “Don’t—”

“Peter—” But Tony was already pulling away, recognition slowly dawning in his eyes. “Peter—”

“ _No_ ,” Peter said. Begged. He was begging. “Please, I _want this_ —”

“You don’t mean that,” Tony said quietly. He was pulling away from Peter slowly, as though Peter had just hit him.

“Don’t tell me what I mean,” Peter said, even as Tony slowly disentangled Peter’s hands from Tony’s neck. “You don’t get to—”

“Peter—”

“ _Stay_ —” Peter’s voice cracked, and he saw pain flicker across Tony’s face, and he wondered if it was pain for himself or for Peter, and Peter didn’t _want_ that pain to be for him, he _didn’t want that_ —

“Please,” Peter said. He looked down at their hands, and Tony looked, too. Tony’s hands were wrapped around Peter’s wrists, trying to lower them at Peter’s sides. They both looked back up, and this time, Peter knew that he had already lost.

 _Don’t_ —

Tony let go of Peter’s wrists.

“Tony—”

“Stop. Just—” Tony let out a long, shuddering breath. He couldn’t look at Peter in the eye. Wouldn’t look at him in the eye. “I’m going to unpack. And tomorrow, we just won’t remember this.”

 _No_ —

Tony flicked his eyes to meet Peter’s. They were too dark for Peter to tell where the iris or the pupil began or ended.

 _Tony_ —

Tony hesitated, looked back down at their hands. Tony’s hands, swaying just lightly at his side—Peter’s hands, doing the same. Peter thought he saw Tony’s hand twitch—

“Tony—”

“Goodnight, Peter.” And then Tony was shoving his hands aside—no, inside his pockets. Keeping his arms at his sides. Eyes looking down to the ground again.

Tony walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :))))))) 
> 
> as always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony had lied.

Tony had lied.

He had already unpacked everything, and he had finished that unpacking when he realized that the suite was too quiet. And then that had made Tony walk out into the main living area of the suite, and he had called Peter’s name—quietly at first, and when he hadn’t heard an answer, his stomach had pitched in the worst way—

Looking back, Tony didn’t know why he had worried so much. He hadn’t heard any doors open or close—and he told himself that he _knew_ that Peter wouldn’t actually do something so stupid as to march right out, but still, when Peter walked out of the closet, Tony had felt a horrifying mix of exasperation and relief and genuine _fear_ , because what if Peter really had—

And then everything else had happened.

Everything else, with Peter’s hand on his wrist, with Peter at his lips, Peter’s hands at his neck and then his shirt collar.

Tony wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that Peter had kissed him, or the fact that Tony was wishing for it to happen again.

The bathroom door was open when Toy walked into his room across the suite. He closed the bedroom door behind himself. He made sure not to slam it—he didn’t need Peter to hear a slam, not right now. He let the door close with a gentle click, and he saw his reflection in the bathroom mirror across from him. His cheeks were flushed, his lower lip already swelling a little.

Tony reached up slowly, brushed a finger against his bottom lip. Peter had tugged at him there with his own lips—bit him a little, Tony remembered dully. Not a hard bite, but there had been teeth. And hard breathing and tangled hands and Peter had felt so warm.

Tony tugged at his shirt collar. It was a little stretched, a little rumpled from how hard Peter had tugged at him. That was another thing Tony had noticed: Peter was _strong_. Stronger than he looked, at least. Strong enough to push Tony back against the doorframe, which…

Tony moved a hand under his shirt, up his back. He could feel the small scrape from where Peter had dug him so hard into the wooden frame. Tony didn’t feel any pain at that—just a slight numbness that Tony didn’t think had anything to do with being slammed into the doorframe. Tony briefly wondered if Peter had a matching scrape along his back, from where Tony had pushed Peter back. Pushed him back, pushed hands through his hair, pushed lips down to Peter’s and breathed him in like he was the last bit of oxygen in the room.

Tony walked across the bedroom and tugged the bathroom door shut. He didn’t need to see any more of his swollen lip, the rumple in his shirt.

And then Tony changed his shirt, even though he had only just worn it after taking a shower. He tossed his shirt into the closet, not caring where it landed, and then he shut the closet door too.

His phone buzzed then, and for a stupid moment, Tony thought that Peter had texted him from across the suite—but then Tony remembered that Peter never texted him, even though Tony had given him his number.

Tony looked down at his phone and sure enough, it wasn’t Peter. Just Natasha, asking how they were holding up.

Tony decided to ignore the text. He connected his phone to its charger, turned off the ringer. He turned off the lights, set himself down on the bed. He didn’t bother with the covers, even though the room was chilly.

Tony closed his eyes. He told himself he was exhausted. And he _was_ exhausted. He should be exhausted. Because so much—too much—had happened in one day. Tony’s face still hurt from where Quentin had punched him, even though that alone felt like it had happened years ago. And he could still smell the chlorine of the pool, even though that felt like it had happened years ago too. Sitting at the pool ledge, kicking water, being dragged into the water…that all felt as though that had happened in a different lifetime, even though Tony knew that really, that had happened just a few hours ago. Less than a few hours ago.

Tony rolled over on his side, buried his face into the pillow to block out what happened next—

Because what had happened next was Peter’s hand grabbing his wrist, Peter’s lips, Peter’s teeth, Tony running his hand through Peter’s hair. Both of them pushing and pulling at each other like they were fighting over each other. Like they were desperate, as though they had both known that any minute, the realization would kick in—and it _had_.

At least, for Tony.

Tony rolled over on his other side.

 _Sleep_ , he told himself. _Go to sleep_ —

But Tony saw Peter float before him again, heard Peter’s “ _don’t stop_ ”—

Tony hadn’t wanted to stop—

Tony sat up, pushed his hands up to his face.

 _Sleep_ —

Tony got up, checked his phone. There were some more messages, all from Natasha, all with updates on Quentin Beck.

 _Just stay at the hotel_ , one of the messages read. _Don’t take any chances, and don’t do anything stupid_.

 _Too late_ , Tony thought, and he very almost nearly texted that. He tried to imagine how _that_ conversation would go with Natasha, but then he found that he couldn’t really picture a conversation at all. He mostly just saw Natasha’s fist coming in his direction. And then he saw Pepper’s disappointed face—but disappointed wouldn’t even _cover_ it. The disappointed face had come out when Tony had buried himself in work or came home an hour late. And then Tony made the mistake of picturing _Steve_ —

Tony dropped his phone back on the table, threw himself back into bed. Stared up at the ceiling, felt the strange sense of déjà vu that told him that he had done this far too many times for one day. But Tony decided he was allowed. He _should_ be allowed some of that déjà vu, because everything was spinning out of control, and still, the only thing Tony could feel were Peter’s lips on his. Peter right under Tony’s hands, Peter’s breath getting tangled in Tony’s.

Tony pushed his hands up to his face.

He just had to last until morning. Just until morning, and then they could pretend like none of this ever happened.

 _Just until morning_ …

Tony closed his eyes, dropped his hands to rest on top of his chest. _You’re exhausted_ , he told himself. _You’re going to sleep now. See, this is easy—just go to sleep—justgotosleepgotosleepgotosleepgotosleep_ —

Tony let out a frustrated growl, sat back up. He pushed himself off the bed, walked around the bedroom once, twice. The bedroom wasn’t small, but Tony felt like the walls were closing in on him—

Tony opened the bedroom door, walked out to the dimly lit living area. The shades had already been partially drawn, and Tony could make out the glow of the city from beyond. He supposed that should relax him, but Tony felt nothing as he sat down on the couch, right where he had earlier that day. He propped himself up on an elbow, turned around to catch more of the city’s lights out the window. Told himself that in just a few minutes, he would actually go to sleep—he just needed to not be in his bedroom, where the walls felt too close and the room too cold and the phone bearing too many messages from Natasha.

Tony leaned back against the couch, dropped his head back so that he was now mostly looking up at the ceiling, but could still make out the lights out of the corner of his eye.

And then he heard another door open. A few steps, and then—

“Oh.”

Tony jerked up to find Peter standing at the other end of the living area. Even in the semi-darkness, Tony could make out the gleam of Peter’s eyes. He noticed that Peter had changed too: sweatpants, a shirt with too-big sleeves. His curls were pushed back, as though hands had been run through them—and for a second, Tony thought with a pang that it might have been because _he_ had done that, but no, that must have just been Peter, because there was no way curls still looked like that an hour later—

“Sorry,” Tony said, standing up. “Did you—do you want—”

“No, it’s fine,” Peter said. He gestured halfheartedly down to the kitchenette. “I was just…looking for some water.”

Tony managed a nod. “Sure,” he added unnecessarily.

“Yeah,” Peter replied. Perhaps unnecessarily too. Tony heard Peter walk across the space, grab a water bottle from the small fridge. Tony glanced over to see Peter’s face get lit by the fluorescent lights, but then Peter closed the fridge door, and then he was walking back across the living area, his head ducked low and water bottle perched under his arm. And then, walking across the living area, he asked slowly, so obviously carefully that Tony’s chest hurt, “Why’re you here?”

Tony tried to think of an excuse. A lie to tell.

He found that he didn’t have any. No energy to think of one.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Tony replied.

“Oh.” Tony saw Peter shift a little, and then a second later, Tony realized how stupid he sounded.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with…” _With you._ But that was a full lie. Tony cleared his throat. “This just happens sometimes. The can’t-sleep part.” A partial lie. He at least had enough energy to come up with that.

But Peter didn’t seem to believe him—not as Tony saw the way Peter’s eyes flicked over him, the quiet “right”.

“Anyways,” Tony said, fiddling with the arm of the couch. He stopped. “You should go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t sleeping either.”

Tony looked at Peter. He was rolling the water bottle between his hands, his head down. “That happens to me sometimes too,” he said. “The can’t-sleep part.”

Tony wondered which of them the better partial liar was.

Tony stood up. “You could…if you need—” Words. He needed to find words. “I’ll go.” He started to move away from the couch, head to the direction of his room.

“Wait—you don’t have to—” Tony heard footsteps behind him, and for a moment, Tony wanted those footsteps to keep following him, wanted a hand to grab him back again, but then the footsteps stopped. He heard a shaky breath, and Tony knew that he probably wasn’t meant to hear that, but his ears were already tuned to Peter’s breaths, to Peter’s voice. So painfully tuned and aware, Tony realized. And he hadn’t even noticed until now.

“You don’t have to go,” Peter said from behind Tony. Tony could see Peter still rolling the water bottle between his hands, his head slightly bowed. “I’ll go first.”

And then Tony heard Peter’s footsteps—going back to his room—

“Peter.” The name was already out of Tony’s lips when he turned around. “Peter, wait—”

Peter stopped short, turned slightly.

Tony dropped his hands to his sides, felt his heart hammering fast and hard in his chest. He opened his mouth, tried to say something. This was where he was supposed to say something. He was suddenly reminded of all the times he fought with Pepper or Steve about something, the part where Pepper or Steve would give him their disappointed little smiles because they knew that he _couldn’t_ say the right thing, even if he tried, and even if he wanted to.

 _Don’t compare them to Peter_ , Tony thought furiously. _They aren’t the same as Peter. This isn’t the same situation._

And Peter wasn’t giving him any disappointed smile. He wasn’t smiling at all. He just looked tired.

Tony curled his hands inwards, tried to think of the right thing to say— _what was the right thing to say­_ —

“I don’t want us to keep doing this,” Tony said at last. “Wait, _Peter_ —”

Peter was already turning away, but he didn’t walk forward.

“Look,” Tony said quickly, “I know I said wait until morning, but…” He lifted his hand helplessly, let it fall back against his side. “Never go to bed angry and all that.” And Tony hated himself then, hated that weird lightness his voice took at the end, because this situation wasn’t _light_ , but that was the only way he could—

Peter turned around fully, and Tony knew that Peter was thinking the same thing.

“Are you angry?” Peter asked. His voice was flat, not at all like himself. Tony had done that.

“No,” Tony said. He pushed his hand through his hair. “That came out—that wasn’t what I meant. Not like that.”

“Right.” Peter turned back around. “Okay. Well, just for the record, I’m not angry either.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t?” Peter asked. He turned back to Tony, this time completely forward. He set his water bottle down on the couch. “Right—because you know _exactly_ what I mean.”

 _Don’t tell me what I mean_ , Peter had said when Tony had pulled away. _You don’t get to_ —

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you _didn’t_ ,” Peter said, his voice strained. He let out a small exasperated sound, looked to the windows, looked back to him. “Okay? When we—when _I_ —” He looked at Tony, his lips pressed together as the silence stretched between them. As they both wrestled for the right words. “And then you just…left. And I know you didn’t want to, because you kissed me _back_.”

Tony felt something jab at his chest. “Peter…”

“ _Don’t_ talk to me like that,” Peter said.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a kid,” Peter said roughly. “Because I’m not. I’m _not_ , even if you keep calling me that. And I’m not…” He let out another frustrated sound, pushing his hands into his hair. Agitated—this was what Peter looked like when he was agitated, Tony realized. Actually agitated, not just annoyed or angry or tense. “I’m not something that’ll just _break_.”

“I never said—”

“But you did,” Peter said. “When you left.” His hands dropped down from his hair. He let out a quiet breath of a sigh, looked at Tony. “Just…I’m not angry at you. But if you expect me to forget…” His voice drifted, and Tony could hear the next words: _I can’t._

And Tony knew he couldn’t, either.

Peter turned back around. “Goodnight, Tony,” he said quietly. And then he was walking away, back to his bedroom.

Tony watched him go. And then he realized that _this_ was what they were: someone always coming, someone always leaving. Back and forth, rinse and repeat. He had seen this part too many times, this _one specific part_ —

Tony glanced down at the couch where Peter had dropped the water bottle.

“Wait, Peter—” Tony grabbed the water bottle, walked forward right before Peter could open the door. “Peter, you left your—”

Peter turned around. Looked down at the water bottle in Tony’s hand and took it. “Thanks,” he said flatly.

“You’re—” Tony was about to say _welcome_ , but he found that he couldn’t get there. He just looked down at Peter, found that gleam in his dark eyes, the curve of his set lips. “I don’t want to do this,” Tony said at last.

“Yeah, you made that pretty clear,” Peter said.

“That’s not what—” Tony groaned, dropped his head back. Closed his eyes, re-opened them. “I don’t want to do the fighting part. This part. When one of us walks away.”

Peter tilted his face up to Tony. He could see Peter’s lashes, the slight part of his lips.

“Then stop,” he whispered.

It was as though someone had flipped a switch then—that was the only way to explain how Tony just had enough time to think, _this is a bad idea_ , before leaning down, catching Peter’s lips. Cupping a hand to the back of Peter’s curls, closing his eyes as Peter pushed back, kissed him back.

There was no biting this time, no slamming into door frames. Just Peter pressing back into Tony, his lips warm and open and taking, and Tony realized that he was willing to give as much as he could.

And then Peter was tugging at Tony’s shirt, dragging him through the bedroom door, and Tony followed, not even caring because all he wanted and all he could feel was Peter’s burning mouth, Peter’s burning hands.

Tony felt the mattress sink under them a moment later, felt Peter’s hands travel up to the back of his neck. Loose, gentle brushes of Peter’s fingers that sent a chill up Tony’s spine, but he couldn’t even tell if it was a bad or a good chill, and he decided that it had to be good because he wanted _more_ —

Tony stopped for air, even though it killed him. Even though he hated that it killed him. He didn’t move his hands from Peter’s curls though, and for a moment, they just sat at the edge of the bed, their heavy breaths the only sounds in the room.

Tony shifted his hand through Peter’s hair. Felt the strands between his fingers, felt Peter shiver a little under his touch. Tony stopped.

“Are you…”

“I’m okay,” Peter said quietly.

“Okay.” Tony paused. Swallowed. “Peter…”

Peter lifted his head, and all Tony could hear was _kids like him—guys like you_ —

“What are we doing?” _What am I doing?_

Some silence.

And then Peter, quietly: “Well, I kissed you, and then you kissed me. What do you think we’re doing?”

“I don’t know.” That was a lie. Tony swallowed again, bowed his head. “Peter, this isn’t exactly the best—” He made the mistake of looking at Peter again. Sighed, dropped his hand from Peter’s head. He let it fall next to Peter’s thigh, made sure that his hands weren’t actually on Peter himself, even though Tony wanted—

“You won’t hurt me,” Peter said, and then he was moving one of his hands away from Tony’s neck, tangling it in Tony’s free hand. His fingers slipped so painfully easily between Tony’s, and all Tony could think _this_ was the easiest that he had ever felt with Peter: with Peter’s hand in his. Tony wasn’t sure what that meant.

Tony bowed his head. “Peter—” He heard the desperation in his own voice, the strain and the needing and the wanting clashing together—

“Tony,” Peter said. And then Peter was leaning forward, and Tony was letting Peter kiss him again. Hands still tangled together, Peter’s other hand still at Tony’s neck. Tony closed his eyes, and for a few blissfully warm, slow seconds, he could only feel and hear and breathe Peter in. He let himself be pushed back, caught the hem of Peter’s shirt to keep them from toppling off the bed entirely.

And then—

They broke off at the same time, so much closer than before. They were close enough to touch cheeks if either of them turned.

“Do you…was that…” Peter’s voice was quiet, hoarse. “Did I mess things up?”

 _You could never_ —

“No,” Tony replied. And without thinking more of it, he leaned forward, bumped his forehead against Peter’s. He heard, felt Peter sigh and relax against him, and that made Tony feel hot and cold at once. ( _Kids like him, guys like you…_ )

“Peter,” Tony said, aware that their hands were still together, “I…with this—” _I want this—_

“I can’t do this with you right now,” Tony said at last, and he felt Peter stiffen a little against him. But then, before everything could be ruined again—because Tony realized terribly, selfishly, guiltily, that he didn’t want Peter to move away from him. He wanted Peter to stay right by him, warm and lips just a breath away. “Just until the situation dies down. Just until there’s no more monsters around the corner.”

A silence, and then: “Is it because you think this is some kind of…crisis thing?”

_Maybe. Partly._

_(But also, please don’t let this be a crisis thing.)_

“I just want you to go in with both eyes open,” Tony said. He closed his eyes. “And I would say that if you were doing _this_ …” He gestured limply towards the space between them with his free hand. “With anyone else.”

“But I’m not doing this with anyone else,” Peter said quietly. “I’m doing this with _you_.”

Tony’s throat tightened. _Kids like him, guys like you…_

_Having this kid need your—_

Tony tried to laugh. It came out like a surrender. “What happened to us being strangers?”

“I say stupid things when I’m not…” Peter’s voice drifted. “But this isn’t that. I’m not—”

“I know,” Tony said, even though he really didn’t. He shifted himself away from Peter. Not too far away, just enough for them to not feel their immediate heat anymore. “But for now…”

Another silence.

“Okay,” Peter said at last.

Tony nodded.

And then: “Did you…” Peter’s voice dipped for a second. “Did you just kiss me back because you felt sorry?”

“No,” Tony said immediately. Wondered if he should have answered that fast. If that was a good idea at all. But it didn’t matter—the words were out, and those words were true, and Tony wasn’t going to take them back.

“Okay.” Peter shifted a little against the mattress.

They were quiet for a few more seconds before Tony said, “You should probably get some sleep now. Long day.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them moved.

“Tony—”

“Peter—”

“Can you—”

A squeeze of their hands. Tony wasn’t sure which one of them had squeezed first.

“Yeah.”

\--

The bed was more than big enough for the two of them. And really, it was big enough for both of them to take complete opposite sides of the bed and never come into contact once, but they didn’t go that far. They were maybe an arm’s length away. If Tony reached, he could probably grab Peter’s hand again.

He didn’t.

\--

Tony woke up once, in the early morning—right when the sun was just barely beginning to rise. Just enough light had filtered into the room—just enough light to make out Peter’s face tilted towards him, an arm outstretched towards Tony. Just barely brushing against his side.

Tony turned slowly, careful not to make the mattress squeak too much as he faced Peter completely. Saw the lines that composed Peter’s face, the curve of his eyelids, nose, lips. Lips that had pushed and opened and burned against Tony’s until his head spun.

Peter shifted a little in his sleep, a soft sigh leaving those lips of his.

And Tony closed his eyes again, forced himself to forget what those lips felt like on his own.

\--

The loud knocking was what woke Tony and Peter up.

“What—”

“It’s okay, I got it,” Tony said quickly, shoving himself off the bed. He looked back at Peter, who was quickly sitting up. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “It’s probably just cleaning services.”

“Tony—”

“It’s fine,” Tony said, already reaching the bedroom door. “I’ll take care of it.”

And then he was half stumbling, half walking to the suite door, his heart hammering in his chest, and then he made it to the peephole—

He groaned, rested his forehead against the door.

“You weren’t picking up your phone,” Natasha said, walking into the suite. She was dressed in work clothes—black pantsuit, crisp white shirt. No Pepper, which meant more serious work. Tony’s chest squeezed as Natasha came to a slow stop at the center of the suite. She glanced around—first to where Tony’s room was, then to the living room, then to Peter’s room. “Is he…”

“In his room,” Tony finished. He cleared his throat, turned to Peter’s room. “Peter? It’s just Nat.”

There was some shuffling, and then Peter came walking out of the room, looking relieved. “’morning.”

“Good morning,” Natasha said. “Looks like you two slept well.”

It took a second for Tony to remember that was a perfectly normal greeting. “Well, something about hotel beds,” Tony said, walking across the rest of the suite. He dropped himself on the couch, remembered that this was where Peter usually sat— _usually sat_ , even though in reality, he had only sat in this spot just once, and that was yesterday. He wondered if it would be strange for him to get up, but then Peter sat down next to him, and he decided it would be even stranger if he got up now.

“That’s good,” Natasha said, sitting across from them on the opposite couch. “Because I need you two fully awake and alert for what I’m about to tell you.” She paused, looked at Tony. “You didn’t read any of my texts?”

“Phone was charging,” Tony replied.

“Where?” Natasha asked, turning. “In your room?”

“I turned the ringer off,” Tony said.

Natasha looked a second longer at Tony than he was comfortable with before swiveling back to face Peter and him completely. “I sent over someone to watch Peter’s apartment last night,” she said. She reached into her pocket, drew out her phone and an envelope. “And our mutual friend dropped this off. And the idiot I sent,” Natasha added with an annoyed glare at her phone, “let him get away.”

“It’s okay,” Peter offered quietly.

“It’s not,” Tony and Natasha said automatically.

Peter looked at Tony.

Tony looked at Natasha. “And what’s that?” he asked, nodding at the envelope.

Natasha grimaced. “He left a little note,” she said, flipping the envelope open. For a moment, Tony thought there was nothing in the envelope at all—it looked so flat, but then Natasha dug out a small piece of lined paper.

“An address, time, and date,” Natasha said, tapping on the printed words. “Tonight. For Peter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Peter—” Tony’s hands were suddenly wrapped around Peter’s wrists. “You need to—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change!

“So he’s not going,” Tony said. Peter felt Tony swing around to look at him, felt Tony’s eyes boring into his face. “Peter? Say you’re not going.”

“You’re not going,” Peter replied distantly. He reached for the square of lined paper. Flipped it over once, twice in his hands. He looked at the address and puffed out a sigh. Not an address he recognized. He wasn’t sure if that was meant to make him feel better, but it did. Midnight.

“Peter, now isn’t the time to—”

But Peter looked up at Natasha first. “So what now?”

“We’re going to send someone over instead. Someone your height, your size. Get him down there.”

“Is that legal?”

“Do you care?”

Peter should.

He realized he didn’t.

“Okay.” He settled the paper against his palm, looked down at the address again. Then he looked back up at Natasha. “But I want to come with you guys. When you send your guy in. Something might happen.”

“Which is exactly why you need to stay here,” Tony cut in as Natasha opened her mouth. “You don’t have to—”

“It might be dangerous,” Natasha said. “Not to mention risky.” But Peter noticed that she wasn’t arguing against him, not outright at least. She was watching him carefully in the way that reminded Peter of how she had watched him when they all went out to the restaurant in what felt like years ago. But she had been watching him like this even before Peter spoke now. Peter had noticed her quick sweep of Peter’s whole appearance, and for a heart-stopping moment, Peter wondered if Natasha was going to say or imply something right there, but she didn’t, and she didn’t seem like she was about to.

Which should have been nice, and Peter would have appreciated the gesture—if it was a gesture at all—if he wasn’t still thinking about the note sitting in front of them. The envelope was too big for the little slip of paper it carried, Peter realized numbly. So much for presentation.

Peter slipped the piece of paper back into the envelope. Realized that he didn’t need to look at it again to think about the address or the time. He just _knew_ it, as though he had known it for weeks and weeks. “Okay,” he said. “Dangerous and risky. So what then?”

“Wait a second—”

“I’ll go in first,” Natasha said, cutting Tony off. “Along with some of my associates. You’d have to stay in the car. I’ll leave someone with you. Someone qualified,” she added, shooting Tony a look. But Peter didn’t dare look at what the expression on Tony’s face was—he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. But he could feel those dark eyes trained on him, could feel that heat.

“And?” Peter asked.

“And,” Natasha added, “we’ll have him cornered.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She looked suddenly much more serious, almost a little sad. “I’m going to be honest with you right now, Peter—given his track record in getting away with things, it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to get him for stalking and harassment and anything else related to _you_ specifically. But,” she added, “he might be found guilty of some serious cyber-terrorism instead. That, on top of some of his other crimes, we’re looking at nearly thirty years in prison.”

Peter blinked. “Cyber-terrorism?” he repeated.

Natasha’s eyes flashed. “He really should have been more original with his passwords,” she replied. “Just about anyone can get in and figure out what he’s been up to.”

Peter was suddenly very, very glad that Natasha was on his side.

“Okay,” he said at last. “That’s…”

“I wish we could get him for what he’s actually done,” Natasha said. “Trust me, if it wasn’t because of that stupid little note—”

“It’s okay,” Peter said. “I’m…” He looked down at the envelope in his hands. Thirty years in prison. Quentin Beck would be an old man by the time he came out. And Peter…in thirty years…he wasn’t even sure where he’d be in thirty years. Away. Far, far away.

“This is good,” Peter said, looking back up. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me until this is done with,” Natasha said, standing up. She looked at Peter. “If you change your mind about—”

“I won’t,” Peter replied automatically. He ignored the look Tony gave him.

“Fine,” Natasha said. She straightened her clothes, held out her hand. Peter waited a moment before slipping the envelope back to her. “I’ll come around at ten. Be ready by then.” She tucked the envelope into her pocket and, nodding at Peter again, she was gone.

\--

“Why do you want to go?” Tony asked the moment the door clicked shut.

Peter pushed himself off the couch. “I should probably take a shower,” he said. He started to walk for his room, but he heard Tony get up behind him. Heard Tony’s footsteps follow him.

“She said it was dangerous,” Tony said. “He _wants_ you to show up, Peter—he’s _baiting_ you—”

Peter walked through the bedroom door, headed into the closet. He turned on the lights and reached blindly for a shirt. Jeans. Or at least, he tried to, but his hands yanked too hard, and the hanger snapped off the bar. Peter took a half-step back as the hangers crashed to the ground.

“Peter—”

“Just give me a second,” Peter said, kneeling down to the ground. He grabbed the hangers, tried to untangle them from each other. His clothes were in the way. He could hear himself breathing, Peter realized. His fingers felt oddly numb as he tried to yank the clothes from the hangers, but they were still too tangled with each other, and he couldn’t separate them—

“Peter—” Tony’s hands were suddenly wrapped around Peter’s wrists. “You need to—”

“I _got it_ ,” Peter said, trying to pull the hangers free. “Let _go_ , Tony, I can—” He yanked his wrists back, still tugging apart the hangers. But he had pulled too hard, and then the wire snapped back, stung his hands and his wrists. Peter hissed, dropping the tangle of hangers to the floor.

For a moment, neither Peter nor Tony spoke. They just looked down at the twisted and broken hangers.

And then Tony dropped down to the floor, his hands tugging the hangers apart.

Peter watched for a second before saying, “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t.”

Peter stopped. He watched Tony slowly tug apart the hangers. One by one, the hangers came free of each other. The broken hangers lay in a heap, the salvageable (slightly bent) hangers lay in another. And all the while, Tony kept quiet, his hands working steadily through the tangled mess Peter had made.

Peter lowered himself down next to Tony. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Tony suddenly stopped. He lifted his head, his eyes turned up to the light above them. Sighed. And then, looking back down at the hangers, Tony muttered, “I told you to stop apologizing.”

Peter looked at the hangers. “Bad habit.”

“You need to break it,” Tony replied. “Break all of it.” He yanked aside the last tangle of hangers, tossed the broken one into its pile before turning to Peter. “Don’t go.”

Peter didn’t move back from his spot next to Tony. He didn’t even blink. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Tony asked. “Peter, he’s—he _wants_ this. You know that, don’t you?”

“And _I_ want this,” Peter shot back. “I need to see that he’s…” He swallowed. “I need to see that this is _over_. Just want the monsters to stop hiding around the corner.” He looked at Tony, saw the recognition flicker in his eyes.

 _Just until there’s no more monsters around the corner_. That was what Tony had said last night.

“Peter.” Tony sounded pained. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do,” Peter replied. He looked away, tugged at a bent hanger. “I just need to be there.” _For once_.

“If you get hurt—you could get _hurt_ —”

“I won’t.”

“ _Peter_ —”

Peter felt hands grab at his wrists, his forearms, and then Peter was being turned back around so that he was looking at Tony. His eyes were wide, searching Peter’s face. Peter waited one moment, two. He could see the rise and fall of Tony’s chest, feel Tony’s pulse thrum against his skin.

“You’re really going,” Tony said at last.

Peter nodded.

Tony was quiet. Then his hands re-settled around Peter’s wrists. “Then you’re not going alone.” And then he stood up, and Peter was blinking at the space where Tony had just been.

“Wait—” Peter shot up to his feet. “You can’t be—”

“I’m going, Parker,” Tony said. He was walking out of the closet. “Whether you like it or not.” He swung open the bathroom door, gestured inside. “So you take your shower, and we’ll go over…battle plans. Just in case something happens. Which it won’t,” he added after a heartbeat. “Because I’ll be there.” He looked at Peter. “Well?”

Peter stared. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes,” Tony said. “I do.”

Peter could only stare. And stare and stare and stare, and Tony was still waiting by the bathroom door. Expecting his response. Whatever that response might be.

Peter walked out of the closet. Headed straight for the bathroom door. Passed Tony. “Okay,” he said.

And then he spun around, crushed his lips against Tony’s. He was surprised—giddily surprised, giddily pleased—to feel Tony push right back against him this time, feel Tony’s hands travel up Peter’s throat, his face, and Peter could feel the sudden desperation in Tony’s touches, as though Peter was going to disappear any second.

It was dizzying, and it was intoxicating, feeling so wanted and so needed.

Peter loved it.

He loved it, he realized. He loved it, feeling Tony’s lips on his and feeling Tony’s hands tug him close, like he was the last supplier of oxygen in a suffocated world. He loved feeling Tony’s mouth open against his, feeling Tony’s hot breath against his neck as Tony broke for air. Lowered his lips down to Peter’s throat, as though that bare skin could provide the air he needed.

Peter dropped his head back, his head spinning as Tony’s hot lips found the base of his throat, collarbone. Back up to his lips.

Peter dragged Tony in close. Realized that he needed that air badly, too.

Realized that they both needed the air that only the other could provide.

Which was why Peter knew that when he dragged Tony back into the bathroom, neither of them stopped to think. Neither stopped or pulled back or questioned what they were doing, not when they both staggered into the shower stall, not when Tony pressed Peter flat against the shower wall, their breaths echoing around the enclosed space.

“Tony—”

“Yeah—”

“Please—”

“If you’re—”

“I’m sure—”

No thinking this time. No stopping or pulling back or questioning, not as Peter helped Tony slip off their shirts, abandon them outside the shower door. Not as their pants, briefs came off a second later, not as Peter’s hand slipped over the shower knob. Mercifully, the water warmed quickly, but that didn’t seem to matter, not as Tony leaned forward again, and Peter found Tony’s lips as easily as though they had been doing this for weeks instead of days.

“Turn around,” Tony mumbled against Peter’s lips. His hands were lingering around Peter’s wrists, fingers skimming right where Peter knew Tony could feel his pulse.

Peter turned around—or let Tony guide him around, and then he was facing the wall, and he was aching, throbbing as Tony’s fingers skimmed past his wrists again. Just a touch on the wrists—Tony wasn’t even _doing_ anything yet, not really, and Peter was already shivering and twitching and _waiting_ —

“Tell me when to stop,” Tony whispered in Peter’s ear.

“I won’t,” Peter replied.

“Tell me anyways.”

Peter managed a barely perceptible nod— _just do it already_ , he wanted to say, but he didn’t. He felt one of Tony’s hands back, draw back around, and—

Peter sucked in a breath as Tony’s other hand lowered right to his already hard cock, already slick and warm with water and pre-cum. He let out another small sound as Tony’s thumb settled over the head, rubbed slowly, carefully around. Peter dropped his head, instinctively started to buck his hips into Tony’s hand, but no, Tony’s free hand had wrapped around Peter’s hip, kept him steady.

“Slow down,” Tony said quietly. “Don’t rush it.” But all the while, Tony’s hand had started to slide down Peter’s cock, rubbed up and down with a water-warmed hand. Peter whimpered, pushed himself back against Tony’s chest as they both looked down at the hand lazily feeling Peter.

Peter reached up with his hand, wrapped it around Tony’s wrist. Watched Tony’s hand remain sliding up and down Peter’s cock, unbothered and unaffected by the fact that Peter was practically giving him the death grip—

“Tony,” Peter whispered as Tony gave a particularly slow travel up his cock. “ _Tony_ —”

“I know, I know,” Tony said. He slid his hand back down quickly, and Peter whimpered, this time unable to keep his hips from lurching forward, trying desperately to aid the process. Trying to chase that heat, because it was unbearable, he was hard, and Tony was only just getting started, and that wasn’t _fair_ —

“Please,” Peter breathed, and this time, Tony’s hand let go of Peter’s hip, allowed Peter to jerk against Tony’s hand. “Tony—”

“That’s right,” Tony replied. His hand moved faster, his grip harder, movements tighter, more precise. “Right here.”

Peter let a moan slip from his lips as Tony’s free arm wrapped around his shoulders, tugged Peter close against Tony’s chest again. The warm water was slipping between both their bodies, down Peter’s front. Tony’s hand slick and wet with Peter’s pre-cum and the shower water—Tony’s hand, wrist still clutched by Peter’s hand—

Peter let out another small sound as Tony’s hand dragged up his cock. He snapped his hips forward, could feel himself—

“Tony, I’m gonna— _please_ —” Peter closed his eyes, bit down on his lip. Too much, it was too much, and he—

Peter felt Tony’s warm mouth find his. “Come for me, then,” Tony whispered into Peter’s mouth.

And Peter fell apart right there, gasping right into Tony’s mouth as he came. He bucked helplessly into Tony’s hand, his own grip on Tony’s wrist loosening, falling away as his world blurred, darkened, and when he came back around, he was leaning back against Tony, his mind hazy and only brought back into focus when he felt Tony pressing against him.

“We can stop here,” Tony said. He was breathing hard, and when Peter twisted around to look at Tony’s face, he could make out the flushed pink hues in his face, see the glassy look in his eyes, saw the hunger and need there. But still, Tony said, “If you…”

“No,” Peter said. He turned around fully, wrapped his arms around Tony’s shoulders, let his hands travel up the back of Tony’s neck. “You too.”

“Peter—”

“ _Please_ ,” Peter said, and he shut Tony’s next words by catching his lips with his own. “I know what I want.”

“Tell me when to stop,” Tony said.

“I won’t,” Peter repeated. And then he fell back against the shower wall, guided, tugged Tony towards him. Dropped his head back against the wall as Tony leaned forward, lips searching Peter’s, trailing back down to his jaw. His ear. Peter felt teeth. Smiled at Tony’s bare shoulder, dropped his mouth there—

And then Tony’s hands were travelling down to Peter’s hips, and then there was a whispered, “hold on”—and then Peter was being lifted against the wall, his toes just barely brushing against the shower floor when Tony pushed himself inside.

Peter gasped into Tony’s shoulder, hung his head, let his arms slacken.

“Are you—”

“If you ask me if I’m okay _one more time_ ,” Peter said, managing to lift his head just enough to meet Tony’s eyes. “Just _fuck me_.” He leaned forward, caught the water slipping down Tony’s lips with his tongue. “ _Now_.”

For a moment, Tony’s grip faltered, and Peter wondered if he came on too strong—too much—but then Tony was pressing Peter flat against the shower wall again, his lips tracking Peter’s in a messy tangle of breaths and a muttered, “fucking _hell_ —”

Peter wasn’t sure what Tony was referring to, but whatever it was, it didn’t matter, because Tony was inside Peter again, and Peter’s hand blindly reached for the back of Tony’s head as they moved together, hips snapping and hands grasping at each other’s skin hard enough to leave bruises, only these were bruises Peter wanted to keep. And maybe that was a fucked way of thinking—but this was a fucked situation, and Peter knew that, and he knew that Tony knew that, but right now, he didn’t care, because Tony was burying his face in the crook of Peter’s neck and shoulder, his warm lips melting the ice of Peter’s skin.

Peter craned his head to feel more of Tony’s mouth, but he had shifted the angle of his body too soon, and he felt rather than heard Tony’s barely-stifled moan, and Peter was suddenly grabbing at Tony’s shoulders, because Tony was snapping his hips harder, breathing harder into Peter’s skin.

“Peter,” Tony said, his voice tight. “You’re—”

“Am I—”

“Perfect,” Tony said. “Peter, you’re _perfect_.”

Peter let out a small noise that sounded embarrassingly like a cross between a groan and a whimper. But Tony didn’t seem to care, and that for some reason made Peter feel even better, and then he was dragging Tony towards him again, trying to catch his open mouth again.

“Perfect,” Tony repeated against Peter’s lips. “You’re—”

Peter came for the second time, with a shudder and a gasp and his mouth dangling open. He hung his head over Tony’s shoulder, his whole body going limp as Tony’s rhythm became more erratic, less focused, and then there was a warmth, and Tony’s “ _Peter_ —”

They slumped against the shower wall together, their faces warm and muscles trembling and breaths pushing out too hard. But Peter managed to lift his head, managed to trail his swollen and numbed lips up to Tony’s chin, found Tony’s lips eventually.

“Peter,” Tony said at last, and Peter paused.

He looked up to Tony’s face, wondering if he would find disgust or shock there—but all he found was a quiet determination. Peter stilled as Tony lifted a hand to Peter’s face. And Peter turned slightly, slid his lips into Tony’s palm. Heard Tony’s quick breath, but Tony didn’t step back, and Peter didn’t pull away.

When Peter looked back up at Tony, he found that the quiet determination had been replaced by something else: something both gentler and harder, something both surprised and not surprised at all.

“I’m coming with you,” Tony said.

Peter didn’t realize how much he had wanted to hear those words until now.

He nodded.

Tony nodded back, his hand slipping from Peter’s face. “You should probably _actually_ take a shower now.”

\--

(They didn’t shower. Not right away.)

\--

(Peter dried himself off later, looked at the steamed glass of the shower door. He saw handprints—Tony’s and his own, saw where their palms had dragged each other down.)

\--

Natasha came at the exact time she said she would.

She didn’t say anything, not when Tony got in the back seat with Peter. She didn’t look surprised, Peter realized, and he wondered if Natasha had guessed that this would happen all along. She didn’t look surprised when Peter adjusted the collar around his throat either. She just turned to the person driving—a young woman with dark hair and a red baseball cap—and then they were off, shooting into the streets and leaving everything else behind.

\--

Peter found Tony’s hand. His wrist.

He squeezed his hand. _Are you_ —

Tony squeezed back. _Right here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing like some good old f e a r to make people make snap-second decisions! :D 
> 
> Classes have officially started for me over here, but I promise updates will still be regular! And as always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stopped too soon.

They stopped too soon.

Tony looked at the ramshackle building in front of them—literally, ramshackle was the most polite way to describe the structure in front of them. Broken windows, no lights, a door that should have been a door but now swung just barely by its hinges. Half-painted graffiti and empty beer cans were the only things that caught even the faintest glimmer of light.

“Right,” Natasha said, swinging around in her seat. “You two stay in here.”

“And you’re—”

“Heading in,” Natasha said. She tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Wanda here will keep you two company.”

The driver only nodded at Tony and Peter through the rearview mirror. Tony figured that was supposed to be a reassuring gesture. She looked serious, her eyes already sweeping around the building in front of them. She couldn’t have been that much older than Peter though. Maybe a few years older. Only a few.

“And?”

“And,” Natasha said, adjusting her jacket over herself, “this will all be over soon.” She adjusted her jacket again, looked at Tony and Peter. “By the end of tonight, you two will be back in bed safe and sound.”

It took a moment for Tony to get what she was saying—

And then Natasha flashed a smirk at them, and then she was out of the car, and Tony didn’t know where to look. Decidedly not at Wanda, who seemed rather intent on her nails.

“Was that…” Peter sounded confused. “Did she mean…”

“Mm-hm.”

“Huh.”

A pause.

“I figured that she would—”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Is she usually…”

“Perceptive. With a capital _P_.”

“Huh.”

And then a laugh.

A small laugh, but a laugh nonetheless, and Tony didn’t know how relieved he was to hear that little laugh until he turned to Peter.

Peter was looking down at the ground, his lips twitched into a little smile. He looked tired—Tony figured he did, too, but that little smile was what made him feel suddenly very, very glad that he had decided to come. (He wasn’t sure if it even really was a decision. He had just said that he would go because he knew that he would go, deep down. He would go.)

“Sorry,” Peter said eventually. “I shouldn’t be—”

“Don’t apologize,” Tony replied automatically. Without thinking, he reached over. Found Peter’s hand again. This was something that he hadn’t realized was something so natural to do. Finding Peter’s hand. Slipping fingers through his, squeezing it once. Twice. Three times. “You’re allowed to laugh whenever you want.” And still unthinkingly, Tony added, “It’s…a nice laugh.”

Peter ducked his head, but Tony saw that little smile again. “Oh my God,” he mumbled.

“What?” Tony asked, and he couldn’t help himself either, even though they were literally parked outside the creepiest looking building ever. He couldn’t help himself because Peter was still smiling, and they were holding hands, and Tony didn’t realize how much he had wanted to hold Peter’s hand until then.

“I feel like an idiot. We’re idiots. We shouldn’t be laughing right now.”

“You heard Nat. She said this will all be over soon. I think we’re allowed to laugh a little.” Tony tugged at Peter’s hand a little, just enough for Peter to turn his head to Tony. “We’re allowed. You’re allowed.”

Peter’s face softened then. The smile faded a little, but not in a bad way. Tony saw something warm and gentle flicker across Peter’s face, and he knew that he had said the right thing, because Peter nodded and squeezed his hand back like they had been doing this for weeks, months, years instead of literally just a day.

“After this…” Peter started, and then he paused.

“Yeah?”

“After this,” Peter said, “we should probably sleep. A lot.”

“Done,” Tony replied.

“Sleep in until noon,” Peter added.

“Breakfast in bed?”

Peter’s cheeks pinked, and Tony couldn’t help himself: he smiled again, and when Peter started to look away, Tony caught him by the chin. “Peter.”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll sleep in tomorrow.”

Peter pushed his face down into Tony’s hand. Tony felt his warmth, and he knew it had nothing to do with the actual body heat and everything to do with the fact that, simply, beautifully, Peter was flustered. And that was a new look, and Tony decided that he liked that look.

 _They really were idiots_ , Tony realized. Giddy, stupid idiots.

“Okay, then what about after?” Peter asked at last, his face still pressed against Tony’s hand.

“After?”

“After breakfast. What are we doing?”

“After,” Tony mused. “After, we…what was it you wanted to do? Travel? Go to the park? See a movie?” He pretended to think for a second. “What about traveling? Book plane tickets to New Zealand—”

“Tony—”

“Just fly right out of here. Spontaneous trip, you and me. Wanna visit the Shire?”

“ _Tony_ —” Peter was laughing again, that quiet, shy laugh that Tony had only heard a few times and was realizing that he already wanted to hear more of. _This was what Peter looked like when he had hope_ , Tony thought, looking at Peter. _This was what Peter looked like when he was happy_.

“Or we can go to the park, if New Zealand’s a little too far,” Tony said. “Look at the…birds,” he finished lamely. “And the squirrels. Or we could see a movie. That’d be a nice. All dark and dim too, perfect atmosphere for—”

“ _Tony_ —” Peter’s face was burning now, and he pushed Tony’s hand away. “Wanda, I’m really—”

“I have no idea what’s going on behind me right now,” Wanda only said. She was looking intently to the building in front of them, her eyes comically narrowed. Or maybe not comically narrowed. For all Tony knew, she really _was_ paying attention to what might be going on in front of her. “You two can talk about whatever you want.”

Peter’s face turned pinker, and he pushed his face into his hands.

Tony paused. “But I can stop if you…”

“No, it’s…” Peter’s voice drifted. He dropped his hands to his lap and looked at Tony. “It’s um…nice. Kind of. Really nice.” He cleared his throat, looked away.

Tony looked out the window first. He caught Peter’s reflection—saw Peter turn his head his way, saw Peter’s eyes focus on him through the reflected glass. They caught eyes, and Tony let himself smile again—a small smile, really just a twitch of his lips, but Peter smiled back too. A small smile. An enough smile.

And for a moment, they were fine. They could smile.

Tony was so distracted by their reflection that he didn’t even notice the movement at Peter’s door until it was flung open.

“What—”

And then Tony saw arms wrap around Peter’s middle and yank him out the door—

A dull thud of Peter’s body hitting the pavement, a few muffled screams, and then—

Tony barely heard Wanda get out of the car. He was already rocketing himself out through the door Peter had been tugged away from, his legs moving too slow, too slow, and then he saw Quentin standing a few feet away from him, arm wrapped around Peter’s neck.

Tony heard two clicks then: a click behind him, and then a click in front of him.

“That’s not going to work, sweetheart,” Quentin said, nodding to Wanda’s pointed gun and then nodding down at his own.

Tony’s blood ran cold as Quentin lifted the gun to Peter’s temples. “Did you really think,” Quentin said, slightly panting, “that I wouldn’t think this through? That I wouldn’t _know?_ ” He jerked Peter closer to himself. Peter didn’t even make a sound. No screaming or shouting or crying out—Tony just saw a limpness to Peter’s movements, as though—

_Peter, just how bad was this guy?_

“Let him go,” Wanda said, her voice even.

“Or what?” Quentin snorted. “You’ll shoot?” He pressed the barrel of his gun harder to Peter’s temples, hard enough for Tony to see the imprint it left there. “Who do you think will be quicker?” He slipped his thumb over the trigger then. “ _Oops_ —”

“ _Don’t_ —” Tony took a step forward, reached out his hand.

“Surprised _you_ came,” Quentin said. His finger didn’t move from the trigger. He looked Tony up and down, looked at Peter with a slow smile. “You two hiding out together, hm?” He nudged at Peter’s temple with the barrel of the gun again. “Did you have fun, Peter?”

“ _Beck, I swear to God_ —”

“No,” Peter said. He shook his head at Tony, his head still bumping against the barrel. “Tony. It’s—”

“Do _not_ say it’s fine—”

“The others will be coming out soon,” Wanda said, her voice still even. She took a step closer to Quentin. “You won’t be able to get away.”

“You sure about that?” Quentin asked, nodding to the building behind them. “That place is pretty old, you know.” He smiled again. “It’d be a shame if something happened inside. Just one spark in that place, and the whole thing…” He shrugged. “A shame.”

If Wanda was shocked by that tidbit, she didn’t react right away. She still had her hands on the gun, but Tony noticed her flick her eyes to the building behind them. As though to look for any moving figures, see someone walking through—

 _Nat_ , Tony thought. _This is the part where you come out now._

But no one came barreling through the building.

They were alone.

Tony looked up to meet Peter’s eyes. Just a few minutes ago, they had been smiling and laughing, and Peter had looked happy, and now, Tony saw all of that unravel.

“Peter—” Tony took another step forward. Quentin didn’t step back.

“Tony, don’t—”

“Stop telling me to—”

“ _Please_ —”

“Oh, _God_ ,” Quentin said, his nose wrinkling. “Are you two always like this?” He looked at Peter. “What’d you do, sweetheart? Did you…” He nudged the gun farther up Peter’s temple, right into his hair. “You got in his head, look at him.” He looked at Tony. “Warned you, didn’t I? That kids like him and guys like you…can’t fucking _stand_ lost causes.”

“And what does that make you?” Tony asked. He still had his hand out, still reaching for Peter even despite the distance between them. _Look at me_ , Tony thought. _Peter_ —

He took another step forward.

“I’m not the psychopath holding a gun to some ex’s head,” Tony said, stepping forward. He heard Wanda’s warning—“ _Tony, get back_ ”, but Tony took another step forward. He was closer to Peter. If he took another two steps, he knew where his hand would wrap around Peter’s wrist. Knew just how strongly he would need to pull so Peter could get out of Quentin’s grip. “ _I’m_ not the one who was leaving behind messages and stalking the neighborhood.”

“Tony—” Peter’s voice cracked. “Tony, stop—”

“And I’m pretty sure,” Tony said, taking another step forward, “that _I’m_ not the one who _fucked_ with Peter’s head so bad that he couldn’t even get out of his apartment.” He just needed to take another step forward, grab Peter.

A silence.

And then Quentin shrugged.

“Fine, you got me,” he said.

And then he lowered his gun, and Tony heard the shot, and then he heard the screaming—not from him, that wasn’t him—and then he felt the pain a heartbeat later.

Tony looked down at the blood spreading across his stomach.

 _Huh_.

He heard something else—another gunshot, another scream. Not from in front of him, but from behind. Wanda. Frantically shuffling feet, and then Tony was suddenly on the ground, and he saw Peter’s face twisted into an expression he hadn’t seen before.

 _I’m seeing a lot of Peter today_ , Tony thought. He had seen Peter happy, and now this—

Tony saw an arm try to tug Peter back, but then Peter spun around. Tony couldn’t make out the rest—he just saw a blur of movement, heard a strangled cry, and then Peter stumbling backwards, his face red and his hands shaking around what Tony was pretty sure had been Quentin’s gun, but he couldn’t be sure, because he couldn’t really make out the rest—

“Peter.” Quentin’s voice. Mildly surprised. “Didn’t see that coming.” A slow laugh. “What’re you gonna do now? Think you can…” Tony heard a footstep. Closer to him. Closer to them. _Get away_. “What do you think you’re gonna do to me?”

“Get rid of you,” Peter said. His voice was trembling. Tony didn’t want it to. “All this time, you’ve just— _everything_ you’ve done—”

“You _liked_ it. A kid like you, that’s what you _wanted_ —”

“No,” Peter said. “I _never_ wanted it. Guys like _you_ …” His hands were shaking. Tony wanted to stand up then, wrap his hands around Peter’s because they were shaking so hard. He saw himself grabbing Peter’s wrists on that first time, when Peter had been standing in the middle of the street with the first note clutched in his hands. All that shaking and then Peter jerking away, and Tony suddenly knew— _knew_ —that if he set his hands on Peter now, Peter wouldn’t pull away. “Guys like _you_ wanted it. Wanted _this_.”

A pause.

And then, Quentin: “But who’s holding the gun now?”

Tony saw Peter’s expression falter.

 _Don’t_ — _Peter_ —

“See?” Quentin said. “Let’s be honest—you think you can get around without me? Take a look around, Peter.” A step closer to them. “This is your life. You met me, and I met you, and this is our life. Now. You made that choice, kid. You decided this for yourself.”

Peter’s brows furrowed. And Tony saw the uncertainty flicker there, that terrible, terrible uncertainty that had driven Peter away so many times—

 _Peter—look at me_ —

And then Peter looked down at Tony.

Tony couldn’t see all of Peter’s face, but it was enough.

And then Peter was turning away, and Tony couldn’t make out Peter’s expression.

But he heard Peter’s next words—quiet words, but Tony could hear each of them clearly enough for them to ring in his own head: “And I’m deciding this for myself.”

He heard the gunshot, and then the thud. And then the clatter of the gun falling to the ground, and then hurried steps, and—

“Tony.” Peter’s voice. “Oh my God— _Tony_ —”

Hands pressed to his stomach. Peter’s hands. Tony saw the red stains, saw the tremble in Peter’s arms. And then he heard some shuffling, dragging, and then he saw Wanda’s face above him. Her shoulder was bleeding, and the baseball cap had been knocked off her head, but she was there too.

“Help’s on the way,” Wanda said, breathing heavily. “Just keep pressure—”

“I’m _trying_ — _Tony_ , I’m sorry—I’m _so sorry_ —”

“Stop,” Tony managed. Or he thought he managed. He wasn’t sure if the words were actually working for him right now. But he hoped Peter heard. Hoped Peter could actually hear him anyways, because he seemed to have heard him before. _Stop apologizing_.

Peter’s eyes traced down to Tony’s face, and then he gave Tony a watery smile. More smiling. That was something new, and that was something Tony was glad to see. “I know, I know,” he said. “Apologizing’s a bad habit.”

 _That’s right_.

“I won’t apologize again, okay? I swear I won’t apologize again if you just— _Tony_ —”

 _Right here_.

Tony saw himself squeezing Peter’s hand on the car ride here. Squeezing his hand three times for three words that Tony realized he hadn’t even wanted to say until now. And that was something that he hadn’t expected—but then again, he hadn’t expected a lot of things. He hadn’t expected seeing Peter across his window or having Peter at his place or inviting Peter to a wedding or ending up here, now, on the pavement in front of an abandoned building. He hadn’t expected any of it, and yet—

He found that he didn’t really want to take any of it back. And he wanted to tell that to Peter, along with the three little words that had come along with the three hand holds. He figured that was something that was important for Peter to hear. Really important, because Peter’s face was swimming out of focus now, and Tony was pretty sure that the night was darker than it had been a minute ago.

“No, Tony— _Tony, don’t_ — _Tony_ —”

A hand on Tony’s face. Peter’s hand. “ _Tony, don’t_ —”

Tony found Peter’s eyes again. They were wide and shining and brighter than Tony had ever seen them.

Tony was glad, then. He was glad for those eyes, and he was glad that they were the brightest things in his vision, because everything else was getting dark and unfamiliar. 

And then he slipped under.

\--

(Tony re-opened his eyes once. He was in the back of an ambulance, he was pretty sure, but he couldn’t be _entirely_ sure, because mostly all he saw was Peter’s face streaked with blood and tears, and for a moment Tony was worried that Peter was hurt, too, but then he realized that that was _his_ blood, and he saw Peter’s lips form Tony’s name, but Tony was already drifting back into the blackness.)

(But he knew that Peter was still sitting there. He could still hear his voice.)

( _Right here_.)

\--

(Tony hoped that Peter would sleep in tomorrow. He hoped that Peter would go traveling later too, to New Zealand or Australia or wherever he wanted to go. He hoped that Peter would go walk in the park and go to the movies and dance at someone else’s wedding with someone who made him smile the way he had smiled what felt like centuries ago.)

(Tony hoped and hoped and hoped and hoped, and he re-opened his eyes again, this time not to see Peter, but to see men and women in face masks and bright lights, and for a moment, he could only wonder where Peter was—where was Peter—he needed to be—)

( _Right here_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> (Sorry for updating not at my usual time--I had a rather hectic morning, but of course, I wouldn't forget about you guys!)


	22. Chapter 22

Peter had never fired a gun before. His hands hurt, and his head rang with the shot, but it didn’t matter, because—

Peter staggered back a few steps as Quentin looked down, stunned at the blood seeping past his side. He looked back up at Peter, and for a wild, disastrous second, Peter wished he could take it all back, because _there was so much blood_ , he hadn’t thought there’d be that much—

“You—” Quentin started to say something, stumbled forward a step, and this time, Peter backed away. “ _You_ —” He fell knees-first, a trembling hand reaching up to his side.

Peter’s throat closed. _What did he do_ —

But there was no time to think about what he actually did, because Peter let the gun fall from his hands, and then he let himself fall to Tony’s side, because Tony—he heard himself say something, but he wasn’t even sure what he was saying, because all he could focus on were Tony’s fluttering eyes and fluttering breath, and Peter felt a limp hand fumble around his wrist, and Peter would have screamed right there because _Tony_ —

Peter heard someone shifting over to him. Wanda.

“Help’s on the way,” she said. “Just keep pressure—”

“I’m _trying_ ,” Peter whispered. “ _Tony_ , I’m sorry—I’m _so sorry_ —”

“Stop.” Tony’s voice was slow, quiet. Peter wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been listening.

But he was always listening.

“I know, I know,” Peter heard himself say. “Apologizing’s a bad habit.” He thought he saw Tony start to smile: a faint twitch of the lips, but then it was fading, and Tony’s eyes were closing, and there was blood still slipping over his hands. “I won’t apologize again, okay? I swear I won’t apologize again if you just— _Tony_ —”

Two things happened at once then—

The building behind them started smoking, and then the wails of police and ambulance sirens split the air.

And Peter and Wanda both looked up to find Natasha stumbling out of the building, propping up one of the women who had gone in with her. Her face was streaked with dirt, and her leg was bleeding, but she was alive, and she looked ready to tear something apart with her bare hands.

And Peter would have joined her, but then the wailing grew louder, and Peter looked up to see the blur of red and white that was the ambulance. Men and women were already jumping out, and Peter didn’t know how they got there—how did they know—but he didn’t care, because _Tony, they had to save Tony_ —

Peter heard voices all around him—voices he couldn’t really pick out now, but then he was piling into the back of the ambulance, and he watched as someone put a mask over Tony’s face, and Peter realized that he was still holding onto Tony’s hand.

Peter squeezed it three times.

\--

“Oh, Peter. Peter—”

Peter lifted his head in time to see Pepper walking through the waiting room. She looked exhausted, but there was nothing weighed down in her movements as she sped in. “I think she’s going to be okay,” Peter said, standing up. “Nat—her leg—it’s going to be—”

“I know she’s going to be okay,” Pepper said fiercely. “I’m—” Her voice cracked for a second, and then she shook her head. “She’s going to be okay,” she repeated, and Peter had the feeling that repetition was more for herself than anything else. She looked at Peter. “ _They’re_ going to be okay.”

Something in Peter crumbled.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “They—I brought them into—”

“Don’t even think about it,” Pepper said. “Okay?” She looked around the waiting room, and then, after a beat, she repeated, “They’ll be okay.” She took a deep breath and looked at Peter. “Can you call someone? Family, friends—I think they need to hear from you.”

Peter hesitated. “I don’t—”

“They’ll want to hear from you.”

\--

Peter called May.

And he told her.

All of it.

And the he called Ned, and then he called MJ.

And three hours later, they were all in the waiting room.

\--

Peter thought they would fall asleep, but they didn’t.

Pepper eventually got up and returned with a cardboard carton of coffee.

\--

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you guys about this,” Peter told MJ and Ned later. They were standing outside of the hospital, catching the beginning rays of the sunrise.

“We were worried about you,” MJ said. “You just don’t—” She looked at Peter. “You know we care about you, right?”

“She means love,” Ned supplied.

Peter’s throat closed at the look his friends gave him. “I know,” he said.

“Then, dummy, stop running away from us,” MJ said. She turned to him fully, poked him lightly on the forehead. “Okay?” 

“You guys should be mad at me,” Peter said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Out of all the stuff that—shouldn’t you guys be—”

“Listen, I have a day off,” Ned said. “I don’t need to be anywhere.”

“I have a spotless record,” MJ said. “They’d have to be idiots to fire me if I don’t come in for _one_ day.” She poked Peter in the forehead again. “So,” she said. “Don’t think we’re going anywhere.”

“I’m—” Peter stopped. _Bad habit_.

“Thank you,” Peter said instead. “For staying. And for coming.”

His friends’ faces softened. (Well, Ned’s face lit up; MJ’s face softened.)

“Of course,” Ned said, just as MJ said, “Duh.”

\--

“You should sleep.”

“I don’t think I can.”

May paused, and a moment later, she said, “I guess you couldn’t. Not after everything that’s happened.”

There was a silence.

And then Peter said, “Maybe you should sleep. You’re the one who drove all the way here.”

“You’re wired, so I’m wired,” May replied. She tugged a sweater out of her bag and set it on Peter’s lap. “At least wear that. It’s getting cold in here.”

Peter tugged the sweater over his head and looked at May again. She really did look tired, but she just kept drinking coffee and walking around the waiting room.

“Even when all this started,” May said slowly, “you didn’t want to come back home.” She glanced out the waiting room, to where Peter knew that just beyond the doors, Tony was there somewhere. Hooked to machines and surrounded by surgeons. And Peter wasn’t there.

“Is it…because of him?” May asked.

Peter looked down at his lap. At his hands. He had washed the blood away, but he could still feel it in his skin. Could still know exactly where they had left their stains. He rubbed his hand over his wrist. “I just didn’t want anyone to get hurt,” he said. “He wasn’t supposed to be a part of this.”

“Then how…”

“He’s stubborn. I don’t think he thought he was going to be a part of this, either.”

“Funny how that works.”

Another silence passed between the two before May said, “You’re stubborn too. About a lot of things.” She reached over, interlaced her fingers between Peter’s. “So I know that whatever I say isn’t going to change your mind. But if you ever…” She didn’t finish.

“I know,” Peter replied.

\--

Peter waited.

Natasha and Wanda were given the clear first.

“He rigged something,” Natasha had said, her face pale and tired but eyes bright. “Nearly took out one of the pillars. Pinned my leg. That _fucker_.”

“That fucker is still in surgery,” Pepper had said quietly, and they had all looked at Peter, and Peter found that oddly, strangely, he didn’t feel scared. Just tired.

He took a step outside and waited some more.

\--

The sun was high in the air by the time the surgeon came out.

Peter couldn’t quite process what he said—just that _it’ll be a rough few weeks_ and _he’s awake_ and—

“Can we see him?” Pepper asked.

“He’ll be a little muggy, but—”

“But—”

“One at a time.”

“Peter.”

Peter turned to look at Pepper. “But—”

Pepper’s eyes were gentle, and Peter wondered if Natasha had—

“Go.”

Peter nodded. He looked at May and MJ and Ned. They all smiled at him. _We’ll be here_.

Peter nodded again.

And he walked through the doors.

\--

The room was brighter than Peter expected. Curtains drawn back, fluorescent lights, everything too bright, and for a moment, Peter could only blink, but then he saw—

Tony, propped up at the slightest of inclines—face pale and tired, but eyes open, and—

And then Peter was taking one step, two steps forward, his hand already reaching, and Tony was already looking at him, and Peter saw Tony smile—a small, quiet smile that was _Tony_ —

Peter grabbed Tony’s hand and a second later, he felt Tony’s other hand slip to the back of his head, and then Peter was crushing himself against Tony’s chest, and he could feel Tony breathing underneath him, and that felt right.

For a moment, Peter could just breathe against Tony. Breathe and breathe and breathe and feel Tony underneath him.

Peter felt Tony’s fingers curl into his hair, felt Tony’s shuddering intake of breath a moment later.

“Sorry—am I—” Peter started to get up, but Tony shook his head.

“You’re fine,” Tony said quietly. “Are you…” Tony swallowed. “You weren’t hurt?”

“Nothing,” Peter replied. “I didn’t get—” He stopped. “Natasha and Wanda both got hurt. But I think they’re better now too.” He sat up fully, his hand still tangled in Tony’s. He leaned into Tony’s other hand, found that his fingers were cold. Which was new.

Peter brought up his other hand too, wrapped it around that cold. “Your hands,” he said. He brought Tony’s hands into his lap. Peter rubbed his thumbs past Tony’s wrists, squeezed. As though that alone could transfer all of the warmth left in Peter into Tony.

They sat together like that: Peter slowly rubbing warmth back into Tony’s hands. And all the while, Peter felt Tony’s eyes on him.

When Peter’s hands finally started to slow, Tony turned his palms up, caught Peter’s grip.

Peter stopped. He looked down at his hands in Tony’s and realized numbly that they had been shaking. He hadn’t thought they were shaking.

“Peter.”

“He’s not gone,” Peter said. He looked down at his hands in Tony’s. “I…with the gun—I think I would have—I thought maybe—but he’s in surgery too—and I think you were in worse shape than him, and if you’re okay, then he—”

“Peter—”

“I think I was going to—” Peter stopped himself. “When I saw you there—there was so much _blood_ , and I thought—” His voice broke, and for a moment, he could just sit and stare back down at their hands because looking at Tony’s face was suddenly too hard and too much.

He saw something else instead: he saw himself crouched on the ground with Tony, his blood-stained hands frantically pressing against Tony’s stomach. Feeling Tony’s hand wrap loosely around Peter’s wrist, similarly to the way Tony was holding onto his hands now. “I thought you might—” Peter stopped. “Why didn’t you stop? I _told you to stop_ —why couldn’t you just—” Heat pricked at Peter’s eyes. Their hands blurred before him, and Peter bowed his head. “You fucking _idiot_ —I told you to _stop_ —”

Peter felt a shift against the bed, and then the hand at his wrist left and pushed up to his forehead instead. Peter breathed in quickly, let his forehead sink right against Tony’s palm. He felt Tony’s thumb brush past his curls, rest right at his temple.

And Peter couldn’t help it: he closed his eyes, pushed back gently against Tony’s palm.

Tony’s voice was quiet when he finally spoke.

“I would do it again.”

“You _shouldn’t_ —”

“I would.” Peter felt Tony’s other hand squeeze at his wrist. “Don’t argue with me on this one. I’m too tired to.”

Peter opened his eyes. “You should—I should—”

“Not tired of _you_ ,” Tony said. He tugged at Peter’s wrist, a gentle tug forward. A silence, and then, quietly, “You look tired.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that,” Peter said. “But I can’t—” He looked down at Tony. “You’re still—”

“You don’t kick in your sleep,” Tony said. He tugged at Peter’s wrist again. “So come here.”

Peter tried to think of other excuses—there were probably others who still wanted to see Tony, and the others were probably wondering what was taking Peter so long, and the surgeon might come in to shoo Peter out, but for once—for _once_ , Peter found that he didn’t want to think about all those other excuses at all.

He slipped off his shoes and crawled up to Tony’s side. Rolled over so that he was facing Tony’s profile and, gingerly setting his head on Tony’s shoulder, Peter asked, “Is this—”

Tony squeezed Peter’s wrist. _Yes_.

Peter closed his eyes.

\--

Peter jerked awake to someone shaking him by the shoulder. He looked up, and for a bizarre second, he didn’t know where he was—except no, Tony was next to him, and Tony was sleeping, and everything came rushing back in a heartbeat.

“What—” Peter looked up to find May hovering behind him. And for another heartbeat, Peter felt a brief flash of panic, because he wondered if May was—

But May didn’t look fazed. She looked more worried than anything else, and Peter realized that something was wrong.

“What is it?” Peter asked, propping himself up on an elbow. He rubbed at his eyes. “Is—”

“There’s something—” But May didn’t get to finish, because there was suddenly shouting, and Peter heard MJ and Ned’s voices trailing after angrier, deeper voices, and then—

The door flung open, and this time, Tony woke up with a jolt. “Peter—”

“Peter Parker.”

Peter looked up to find two police men standing a little ways from the door. A moment later, MJ and Ned came barreling into the room. “You can’t just—” MJ was saying, but Peter was already swinging his legs off the side of the bed.

He slipped on his shoes, glanced back up at the police officers still waiting in front of him.

“What’s going on?” Tony asked. “What’re you two—”

“We were told about the firefight last night,” one of the police officers said. He tipped his head to Tony. “And that there were casualties on both sides. We’re just here to ask some questions.” The officer looked at Peter. “Mr. Parker, if you could please come along. This’ll just take a few seconds—out in the hallway.”

Peter nodded. He slid off the bed, felt May squeeze his arm. He passed MJ and Ned, shot them both quick smiles.

He turned around to look at Tony last.

 _I’ll be okay_ , Peter thought.

\--

They didn’t go stay in the hallway as Peter expected.

The police officers led Peter down, down through the hospital and came to a stop at a door. There was a quick knock, and then they pushed open the door.

Peter took one look inside and turned to the police officers. “I thought you were going to ask me questions.”

“We were,” one of the officers said. He jerked his chin at the body on the bed. “Do you know this man?”

Peter looked once. Found the cold blue eyes boring into him.

Peter thought he would look away.

 _I’ll be okay_.

He had to be okay.

Peter curled his fingers inwards and held the stare for one second, two seconds before turning back up to the police. “Yeah,” he replied, and his voice came out steadier than he expected, even though his heart was hammering in his chest. Even though his legs were already seizing in time to run. “He was the one who shot Tony last night.”

“Tony Stark—the one in the other room,” the police officer said.

“That’s right.” Peter straightened. “I thought we were just going to talk in the hallway. Why are we here?”

A pause, and then, the police officer: “Well, you see, we’re in a bit of an awkward situation here.”

“Awkward,” Peter repeated, his eyes darting between the police officers.

“We understand that Tony Stark was injured—”

“He could have died,” Peter said.

“Could have, yes, and Mr. Beck here…” the police officer gestured to the inside of the room. He looked at Peter, gave him what Peter guessed was his best _we’re-just-talking_ face. It was strange, Peter thought. There was a time when he used to look at that expression and just feel lost.

He didn’t feel lost anymore.

“We’re just trying to put the pieces together here,” the police officer said. Another smile. Another _we’re-just-talking_ face.

Peter looked into the hospital room again. Just once. And then he stepped into the hallway, tugged the door shut. He looked at the police officers and, keeping his voice as flat as possible, he said, “If you want to put the pieces together, you just need to ask around your precinct, I think. Starting with Quentin Beck stalking my home.” He took a step away from the police officers. “And then continuing, even after I reported it.”

“So you want to put the pieces together,” Peter said, taking another step away. “Ask me questions when you’ve actually pieced something together yourself.”

\--

“Are you—”

“I’m okay.” Peter sat down on the edge of Tony’s bed, looked up at May and MJ and Ned. He wondered briefly what they might have done while he was gone. He couldn’t tell if they had actually talked to each other, but judging by the semi-awkward glances they all gave each other, Peter had the feeling that maybe there was still some introductions to be made.

“Guys—this is Tony. Tony Stark,” Peter said, gesturing to Tony. “He’s my…” He looked at Tony, unsure what to say next.

“Idiot,” Tony finished.

Peter blinked.

And MJ, Ned, and May all exchanged confused glances at each other—but Peter saw Tony’s little half-smirk and felt something settle in his chest.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “That’s…him.”

A second ticked by before May said, “Well, Tony, it’s nice to meet you.”

“A pleasure,” Tony replied.

MJ and Ned slowly relaxed too, and as they all started talking, Peter crept closer and closer to Tony’s side. He slipped his hand casually under the sheets: to anyone else, it might have looked natural, but Peter found Tony’s hand again.

He squeezed three times.

Tony squeezed three times back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My knowledge of bullet wounds and treatment isn't much save for what Google and television has given me, but it seems like extensive surgery + lots of recovery time seems like the go-to. 
> 
> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated! (Also, wow! We've got three chapters left!)


	23. Chapter 23

Tony woke up feeling too stiff and too warm.

But then he felt something—no, someone—shift against him, and then he smelled shampoo and felt just barely chapped lips brush against the side of his neck and remembered that Peter had fallen asleep next to him.

Tony opened his eyes now, looked to find that Peter’s eyes were still closed. But his hand was tangled in Tony’s, his face almost completely buried in the crook of Tony’s shoulder. Tony became aware of the warmth of Peter’s breath against his skin.

Everything slowly came back to Tony then: the rest of the day yesterday passing by in a blur of visitors and checks from the doctor. A stay in the hospital for a week or so—that was the recommendation, though Tony figured it was less a recommendation and moreso an order. Natasha came in a few hours later on crutches. Pepper, too.

There were introductions—Peter’s aunt and friends, Natasha and Pepper. Natasha and Pepper, Peter’s aunt and friends. Tony noticed everyone evaluating each other for a moment, and then Pepper had cheerfully suggested maybe getting some more coffee. (“And not the hospital kind,” Pepper had said.)

At one point, Peter had gone to take a shower and also change his clothes. “I’ll be right back,” he had said.

And he had.

Tony looked down at Peter now, at the curve of his face still turned towards him.

Whatever had happened yesterday, Peter hadn’t bothered telling Tony. But Tony hadn’t liked seeing those police officers standing in the doorway, and he hadn’t liked the strange look on Peter’s face when he had come back into the room.

Tony turned his eyes up to the ceiling. Breathed in time with Peter’s breaths.

He lowered his thumb down to Peter’s wrist, rubbed the smooth skin there. Peter let out a small sound, and Tony stopped—but Peter just shifted closer, and that heat around Tony grew.

Tony closed his eyes.

\--

“So,” Natasha said, sitting in the chair next to Tony’s bed, “there’s some ways we can go about this.”

“Go about…”

“Beck,” Natasha said. She rolled her shoulders. “He’s recovering in a room on the other side of this hospital.” She looked at Peter. “You still did a number on him—but there’s still some things to take care of. You know that, don’t you?”

Tony looked at Peter.

Peter nodded once. He wasn’t looking at Tony. He wore a look that Tony wasn’t sure he had seen before: oddly determined, a light gleaming in his brown eyes that Tony wasn’t sure was due to the sun drifting through the window or the fluorescents or something else entirely.

“What are the options?” Peter asked.

“There’s getting him in prison,” Natasha said, crossing her arms over her chest. She nodded to Tony. “Now we don’t even need to frame Beck for anything. Tony’s living proof of a major crime, even if it’s not related to…the original issues.”

“Witnesses, time of bullet entry, security camera footage of our cars pulling to the site only after Beck slipped in there,” Natasha said, ticking off her fingers. “If we got this to court, we’d have this case in the bag. _So_. We’ve got some other things we can take care of.”

“Like…”

“ _Like_ we get him into prison—let the police arrest him, have a long, boring trial, put him in jail for attempted murder. _Or_ ,” Natasha said, leaning forward, “ _or_ we can put him somewhere else.”

Peter’s brows furrowed. “Somewhere—”

“There’s certain holding facilities for people who present themselves as high-risk,” Pepper said from the window. She had a mug of coffee in her hands, though she hadn’t taken a sip, Tony noticed. She probably had enough in the last few hours. “If we went along with the original plan and just framed Beck for certain cyber crimes, that would have been enough for Natasha to take him in.”

Peter looked at Natasha. “Is that still possible?” he asked.

Natasha lifted her eyebrows. “Do you _want_ it to be possible?”

Tony watched Peter’s eyes lower to the ground. Peter was perched at the edge of Tony’s bed. His clothes were still rumpled from sleeping, the back of his hair sticking up a little bit, but he was there.

“I don’t want him to hurt anyone,” Peter said at last. “ _Ever_.” He paused. “But can I think about this?”

A beat of silence.

And then Natasha said quietly, “Just for a little bit. But you’ll want to make your decision quickly. Sooner the better.”

Peter nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “ _Really_ —thank you.”

A corner of Natasha’s lips twitched. “Don’t mention it.” She pushed herself up with a crutch just as Pepper came around to her other side, helped her up. Natasha rolled her eyes at Tony and Peter, as if to say, _can you believe this?_ before heading to the door.

“By the way,” Natasha said over her shoulder, “courtyard’s nice if anyone ever needs the fresh air— _ow_ , Pepper, what was that—”

“ _Leave them alone_ —”

“I’m only _saying_ —”

There was some laughter, and then the door closed, and Tony and Peter were alone again.

Peter was still sitting at the edge of the bed, his eyes on the ground.

“Peter?”

Peter blinked, turned to Tony. “Yeah?”

“You good?”

“Yeah.” Peter pushed himself off the bed, stretched his arms over his head. His shirt lifted a little bit to reveal the slightest bit of skin, dropped as he lowered his arms again. He looked at Tony. “You?”

Tony gestured towards himself. “Could be better,” he said. “But you know, not bad.” He kept his tone light, but Peter didn’t smile. So Tony didn’t, either. He set his hand down on the sheets.

Tony waited ten seconds before saying at last, “Maybe we should try the courtyard after all.”

Peter blinked. “I don’t think that’s a good—”

“It’s a great idea.” Tony nodded to the wheelchair at the corner of the room. “Bring that over here.”

“Tony—”

“Peter.” Tony found Peter’s eyes.

Another moment passed, and then Peter sighed. He pushed himself off the bed and walked across the room to the wheelchair. There were a few attempts to bring it out, but then the chair was over, and Tony started to shift himself out of the bed. He reached forward, found Peter’s hand.

Peter’s hand moved up Tony’s wrist, forearm. “Tony—”

“It’s fine,” Tony said, biting back on the dull pain at his stomach. He pushed himself up, set his feet on the ground. He managed a small step forward, adjusted his grip on Peter’s arm, and then—

He sat down with a puff of breath and a half-embarrassed, half-satisfied sigh. He looked up at Peter with what he hoped was a convincing smile. It had to be a convincing smile. Tony lifted his hands. “See? Easy.”

“If you…”

“Two nights in the same room is enough for me,” Tony replied. He nodded out the door. “Come on. You need to get some air, too.”

“I’m not the one who—”

“We _both_ need air.”

For a moment, Tony thought Peter might fight back. He looked like he would: lips pressed together, furrowed brows. A quick glance at the window and then back.

“If you start to feel tired—”

“I’m wired.”

“Tony, don’t joke—”

“I’m not.”

“You _are_ —”

“Hey.” Tony brushed his hand against Peter’s. That was all he needed to do—a simple brush of the hand, and then Peter looked at Tony’s face.

“Come here.”

Peter paused. “What’re you—”

“Come here,” Tony repeated quieter. He was surprised to find his voice was quiet as it was.

Peter looked surprised too—just for a moment. And then he lowered himself slowly, just until they were at eye-level. Up this close, Tony saw that an eyelash had come free on Peter’s face, had somehow managed to brush down to his cheek. Tony would have reached forward to brush it away if he could.

But something held him back.

Instead, Tony tapped his finger against Peter’s forehead. A light tap, just three times. “What’s going on in there?”

Peter lifted his eyes up to Tony. And there—Tony saw Peter’s lips turn up briefly. Just barely, but smiles from Peter was like water. Necessary, vital, and something Tony never knew he actually needed until he had it right in front of him.

Peter took Tony’s hand, lowered it from his forehead and instead set it down on the armrest of the wheelchair. “I’ll tell you when I figure it out,” he said.

Tony huffed out a breath.

And then Peter stood up, and then he was standing behind Tony.

They made their way out of the room. Being wheeled around was an odd experience—Tony hadn’t been in a wheelchair before, not for real. He vaguely remembered a time in college when one of his friends had been working in the hospital, and Tony had stopped to visit. But this was different. Someone was controlling where he went. That someone being Peter.

Tony found that he didn’t really mind.

They found the courtyard eventually—a few twists and turns, and then they saw the late morning light come filtering through an open set of doors.

There weren’t too many people in the courtyard—which, to Tony’s surprise, was a little bigger than he had expected. The ground was concrete, but there were still patches of dirt that kept a few medium sized trees upright. A few bushes, a small flowerbed that was clearly planted by someone who was determined to brighten up the place as much as possible.

Tony saw a child wearing a cap sitting on a bench, speaking with who he assumed was a parent. A man who couldn’t be that much older than Tony was standing alone by the flowerbed. An old woman was holding hands with a man who wasn’t that much older than her.

Peter brought the wheelchair around the courtyard slowly. “Are you okay?” he asked after a little while.

“Yeah.”

A warm breeze passed by, and Tony was glad that spring had officially come.

They made it halfway around the courtyard before coming to a stop.

Peter sat down on a bench.

“Are _you_ okay?” Tony asked at last, looking at Peter.

Peter didn’t respond at first.

“Yesterday,” Tony said. He saw Peter’s shoulders stiffen. “When the police came—what did they want?”

Peter still didn’t respond—and Tony wondered if maybe he had asked the question too soon, but—

“They wanted to know more about Beck. About _putting the pieces together_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Peter lifted his shoulders.

Tony decided that he didn’t need to know for sure what it meant—he just knew that it wasn’t right, and that there was more. Just by judging from the way Peter turned away, tugged at a splintered bit of wood on the bench.

“What else?” Tony asked.

“There was nothing else.”

Tony waited.

And waited.

And then Peter said, quietly, “They brought me to Beck. He was awake.”

Tony’s stomach went cold.

 _Fuckers_.

“Peter—”

“I’m okay.” Peter turned to Tony. Tony was glad that Peter didn’t smile—he didn’t want Peter to smile for this part. “Really. I mean…” He took a deep breath. “I thought I wouldn’t be, for a second. Because he was just…he was awake. And he was looking. And I didn’t want him to look.”

Another breeze passed—just as warm, but Peter still shivered.

Tony’s mouth was dry. “Peter—”

There was suddenly a loud crash, and this time, both Peter and Tony jumped. The coldness in Tony’s stomach spread up to his chest, and then his head hurt, and he turned around to see that it was the old woman and the old man. They were murmuring apologies as a nurse helped them pick up what looked like a box of books.

Just a box of books—they were just books—

“Tony?”

Tony turned back around to Peter.

He looked down.

Peter’s hand was loosely wrapped around his wrist. “Tony—”

“Sorry—”

“Hey.” Peter brought his forehead down to Tony’s hand. Tony’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he wanted to look around just in case anyone else was watching, because it was one thing for Natasha and Pepper to trade snide remarks, but it was another thing for them to be out in the open in a courtyard where everyone could _see_ them—

_And what?_

“Peter—”

“You said that was a bad habit, remember?” Peter’s voice was soft. “Apologizing.”

Tony blinked. He looked down as Peter lifted his head slowly. Tony’s hand slipped from Peter’s forehead. Peter caught it with his own, interlaced their fingers.

Tony couldn’t think straight.

Just that his chest had been tight—was still tight—but Peter was holding his hand.

Tony would have laughed if he could. _Irony_ —

But no one seemed to notice, and Tony and Peter’s hands remained locked together.

Tony sat in the wheelchair; Peter sat on the bench.

\--

They reached the room eventually.

Tony tried not to wince as he slipped back into the bed. But he did anyways, and he heard Peter’s quiet “ _Tony_ ”.

“I’m fine,” Tony said. He leaned back against the pillow, tried to regain his breath. “Fine.” He looked at Peter.

“I should get someone—”

“You really don’t. They’ll come when they need to. And right now,” Tony said, nodding to the door, “they don’t need to, and I don’t need them to.”

A small sound that Tony figured was a sigh. And then: “in the courtyard…”

“Yeah, that wasn’t fun, was it?” Tony said lightly. “Didn’t know that actually read books anymore. Thought it was all on the—”

“Tony.”

“—I’m being serious. Glad that the nurse was there to—” Tony gestured. Or tried to gesture. There was a tremble in his hand that he was pretty sure hadn’t been there before. He slipped his hand under the sheets. “What I’m _saying_ is that it’s all fine. All of it.”

Somewhere, a clock ticked.

“Did you ever believe me when I said that?” Peter asked.

“Situation’s _slightly_ different—”

“Yeah, you could have…” Peter’s voice drifted. When Tony looked up, Peter looked down at the ground.

Peter couldn’t say it, Tony knew.

“What _I’m_ saying,” Peter said at last, looking back up, “is that I’m pretty sure it’s not fair for you to act like you’re fine all the time, too. _Especially_ now.”

“I thought it was working out pretty well.”

“Do you have to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Try to make things funny when they’re really, really not.”

“You thought it was funny? Mission accomplished.”

Tony regretted saying that, because Peter wasn’t laughing. He hadn’t been laughing the whole time, but now Peter looked at Tony with a hurt that he hadn’t meant to cause.

“Sorry,” Tony said at last. “That wasn’t—”

“It’s okay.” Peter’s voice was quiet.

“It’s really not. I—that wasn’t—” Tony let out a frustrated sound, rubbed his hand over his face. “ _Fuck_ —”

“Hey—” The bed sank a little as Peter sat down next to Tony.

Tony dropped his hand from his face. He found Peter staring at him, but not in a way that was scared or confused. Sad, mostly. And Tony realized that he didn’t like that Peter was looking at him like that, because _well, that’s new_ , and he wasn’t really sure if he—

“I’m not good at this part, in case you couldn’t tell,” Tony said at last.

“That’s okay,” Peter said. He had his hands resting against the side of the bed. “Because I’m not really good at it, either.”

“Yeah, but you’re…” Tony looked at Peter’s eyes, the fall of his hair over his forehead.

 _You’ve got an excuse_ , Tony thought. Because at least Tony could actually catch a better glimpse of the person Peter _was_ before Quentin Beck got his cold hands all over Peter—and at least Tony was starting to see some of that Peter wake up, and at least some of that Peter was already getting better at the whatever _this_ was.

“You know,” Tony said after a little while, “I used to leave all the small talking to the others.”

Peter didn’t ask who the others were—and a part of Tony was both embarrassed and relieved that he didn’t have to.

“And the whole… _people_ thing. The interacting thing. The laughs part I’ve got down—which you know. Which everyone knows. But the _other_ parts…” Tony saw disappointed faces and sad little smiles float in front of him.

Peter was still watching him.

“So what I _mean_ is—” Tony tugged at the sheet. “I’m really not good at the other parts. The parts that are supposed to make things keep working.” He tugged at the sheet again.

A silence passed.

And then tentatively, Peter asked, “Do you…want to make things keep working?”

Tony’s chest tightened.

Peter’s expression was different now: still a little sad, but also weirdly, strangely hopeful. And that was something Tony was pretty sure he hadn’t seen before. Everything only ever ended in disappointed and sad smiles—not the hope that Peter gave him now.

“Do _you_ want to?” Tony asked.

“I asked first,” Peter replied.

“But—”

“ _And_ you mentioned it first,” Peter added. “So really, you have to answer first.”

Tony thought that now would be a good time to look away. To the window or to the ceiling—really, anything other than Peter’s eyes, because they suddenly felt too much, but something else made Tony stay still.

“Tony?”

“I do,” Tony said at last. It was little more than a whisper—two little words that were spoken into an already quiet room.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Peter said, “okay _and_ I want to, too.” He paused. “I want to make things keep working too.” He leaned forward just the slightest, a shy little smile tugging at his lips. “You said you were my idiot, remember?”

Tony only looked up at Peter.

And he realized: this was what happy looked like on Peter Parker. The shy smile and the little curl of his hair falling down his forehead and his eyes that were too much.

At last, Tony said, “Are you just gonna stay there for the rest of the day, or…?”

\--

Another detail about what happy looked like on Peter Parker:

Peter laughed when he kissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for updating in the afternoon instead of what usually would be morning (at least, in my time zone). I had a rather hectic day, but! Not to worry, you can always rest assured that I'll have the chapter up on Fridays. 
> 
> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	24. Chapter 24

Peter woke up feeling too stiff and too warm. But then he looked up, found Tony’s sleeping face, saw his slightly parted lips. And for a brief moment, Peter wanted to push himself up and catch Tony surprised and open-mouthed right there, and he remembered a different time when he had just looked at Tony’s eyelashes and realized they were longer than he thought, and he remembered a different time when he had looked at Tony’s distorted reflection in the elevator and realized that he could probably make out Tony’s shape anywhere, no matter how distorted it might be. 

And the world was so, so distorted. 

Peter slid out of the bed as slowly and as quietly as he could. He felt, more than heard, Tony stir — heard Tony’s hitch of breath, felt Tony’s hand brush against his wrist. 

Peter turned around. Tony’s eyes were slowly opening, just barely so in a way that told Peter that Tony wasn’t quite awake yet. But still, Tony mumbled, “Where are you…” 

“Out for just a second,” Peter replied. He rubbed a thumb over Tony’s wrist. “Making a call.” 

“Too early to make calls,” Tony said, his eyes already drifting back shut.

“I’ll be back,” Peter replied. 

“Bring me coffee.” 

“Go to sleep, Tony.” 

Tony huffed a little breath, but when Peter looked at him again, Tony’s eyes were closed. That was good — he needed all the rest he can get after...everything. Then again, Peter probably did, too. No one had said anything to him just yet, but Peter knew from the way Tony tugged at Peter’s wrists that there was some worry there, too. But that feeling had been mutual — it would always be mutual, Peter realized as they both jumped at the sound of crashing books and swearing nurses.

Peter stepped out of the hospital room now, gently closing the door behind him. He found Natasha already out in the hallway.

She lifted her eyes up to him. She was still using a crutch, but she didn’t seem as nearly as bothered by it as she had been a few days ago. Peter had the sneaking suspicion that she had gotten injuries like this before, but he didn’t particularly feel like asking. Or maybe he should ask, because if what was going to happen next was really going to happen next—

“So,” Natasha said, leaning against her crutch, “what’re you thinking?” 

Peter looked at Natasha. “When you said being put away somewhere—” He paused. “You said high-risk. What does that mean?” 

“Anyone who’s gotten away with enough harm to prove untrustworthy in the actual system,” Natasha replied. She tilted her head back against the wall and smiled at Peter in a way that reminded him briefly of a fox. “Does that bother you?” 

Peter paused again. “It should,” he said. But then he thought of the gunshot, the ringing in Peter’s ears. The blood on his hands, seeing a pair of eyes close, hearing what Peter thought were going to be last breaths. Feeling someone who had always been so indestructible suddenly flinch next to him. 

And Peter found that he really couldn’t feel bothered at all. 

“But it doesn’t,” Peter said. He looked at Natasha. “When can you—” 

“Right now, if you really wanted.” 

“Later today?” 

“Sure.” Natasha, to her credit, seemed to take all of this in a stride. She looked at Peter. “But can I ask why later today?” 

Peter turned down the hallway. A few days ago, two police men had walked him down the hallways and led him directly to the room where Peter knew  _ he  _ was waiting. And even though he had only gone down that path only once, Peter knew that he could find it again even with his eyes closed. 

“There’s something I have to do,” Peter replied. “Say. To him.” 

Natasha looked at him for a while. 

Peter looked back. 

Natasha looked a little surprised that Peter held his gaze for so long—it wasn’t easy, Peter realized, to actually hold a staring contest with Natasha Romanoff. 

Finally, a corner of Natasha’s lips twitched. “I think Tony got you wrong, you know. Me too, actually,” she said at last. At Peter’s expression, Natasha rolled her eyes. “Relax, that’s a good thing.” She pushed herself off the wall and, leaning against her crutch, she added, “If you want to say something to him, then fine. You get the last word. But I’ll have people watching. Does that sound good to you?” 

Peter nodded. 

“Good,” Natasha replied. She paused. And then she added, “And this is your choice—this  _ is  _ your choice, but have you considered telling anyone else about your decision?” 

Peter paused. Considered lying, but looking at Natasha, he had a feeling that wouldn’t get him anywhere. So he shook his head, and Natasha gave him a little half-twitch of a smile again. 

“Take a lesson from me,” she said. “Tell people about the big changes sooner rather than later. Especially when it’s telling things to people you actually care about.” She nodded at the emergency room door. “Something I just learned.” 

Peter thought of a different day, a different night that felt like years and years and years ago: only this time, he had been sitting on a couch and watching and waiting as conversation slowly pinged and dwindled between a group of people that Peter didn’t really know and had not thought he would ever know. How he had watched Tony get up and go to the bathroom, how Peter had stayed, and he wasn’t sure why he had stayed except he thought that he did, and he thought that he had to, and he had thought…

“Okay,” Peter replied. 

Natasha smiled at him: a small smile, a teasing smile, and then she turned and left. 

Peter stayed in the hallway. He took out his phone first, because he had made his promises to May and MJ and Ned. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” MJ said. 

“Call me if more shit happens,” Ned said. 

“You always have home,” May said. 

_ You know you’re not alone, right?  _ Each of them asked eventually.  _ You know you were never alone, right?  _

“I know,” Peter replied, scuffing his shoe against the linoleum floor. He looked at the hospital door in front of him. “It just took me a little to get that.” 

He made plans to meet up with MJ and Ned later—maybe go to the movie theaters this time. A shorter movie and a comedy, because Peter liked those, and a movie during the daytime instead of the nighttime, but a movie anyways. Peter made plans to drive up to May in a week. May said she was getting a new apartment—she wouldn’t be staying in the same apartment where all the bad things happened. (“It was about time anyways,” May said. 

Peter agreed.) 

Peter tucked his phone in his pocket and looked at the hospital door. 

He took a deep breath, stepped through. 

Tony was still asleep when Peter walked in. His cheek was pressed flat against the pillow, and his lips were still slightly parted, but his hand was reaching across the other side of the mattress, still waiting for someone to take it. 

Peter slipped his hand underneath Tony’s. “Hey,” he said as Tony opened his eyes. 

For a moment, Tony only blinked his eyes at Peter: and then, after a long moment, he murmured, “You’re back?” 

“Yeah,” Peter replied. He looked down at Tony’s hand. At how they were larger than Peter’s hand, but their hands fit perfectly all the same. Peter turned their hands over so Peter’s hand was on top and Tony’s hand on the bottom. There was some warmth in Tony’s hands now—no longer that strange cold that had frozen over Tony’s hands in the days following immediately after the surgery. 

“He’s not going to hurt us anymore,” Peter said at last. “Hurt me.” 

Tony opened his eyes again. 

Peter looked back down at their hands. “I talked to Nat,” he said. “I made an agreement with her. But I’m still going to talk to him. I’ve just got some...things. To say. To do.” He looked up at Tony. “Nat said that I should tell you.” He managed a small smile. “Something about needing to tell people the important things, I think.”

Tony was quiet. And then he asked, “Do you want to do this?” 

Peter looked back down at their hands. Peter realized that he knew exactly where the blood had dripped past their wrists, and he knew exactly where Peter had grabbed onto Tony’s hand in desperate search of a pulse, something to tell him that Tony was alive and that Beck hadn’t taken yet another good thing away from him. 

“Yeah,” Peter replied. He squeezed Tony’s hand three times for three words that Peter still wasn’t sure he could say just yet. But he hoped Tony knew. 

He had a feeling Tony knew anyways. 

Even if he couldn’t say it—and even if Tony couldn’t say it. 

Even if, Peter suspected, they wouldn’t say it for a long, long, long while. 

“I want to,” Peter said. “I’m going to.” 

Tony was quiet. 

And then he said, “Well, I’m not going anywhere.” He paused. “Not like I would be going anywhere even  _ if  _ I could go anywhere—” 

“Tony.” 

“Yes?” 

“I know.” 

“Oh, thank God.” 

\--

Which was how Peter found himself standing in front of a different hospital door— _ the  _ different hospital door—an hour later. He could feel Natasha’s eyes boring into his back, hear the slight shuffle of steps from doctors and nurses and some of what Peter knew had to be Natasha’s actual personnel, because all of them were young women who stood  _ way too quietly  _ and looked much more alert than the average bodyguard. 

Peter started to slip his hands in his pockets. 

Took them out. 

Threw back his shoulders and, biting back another sigh, walked through the door. 

And he found Quentin in the bed, his eyes open and cool and fixing a little too quickly on Peter as he walked into the room. At least, Peter thought that Quentin had focused too closely and too quickly on him. 

But then again, Quentin was also still. Peter saw the ties that bound his wrists ever so slightly against the bed, the restraints being the only things that were probably holding him back from doing anything drastic again. Because Peter knew there would be an  _ again  _ if someone didn’t actually take the steps to restrain him first. Peter wondered if this had been Natasha’s doing too—he couldn’t think of anyone else who would be able to persuade the doctors of this hospital to do this, but—

“You look like hell,” Quentin said from the bed. His voice was low from days of disuse, but besides that, he sounded oddly...like himself. Like Quentin Beck, slightly more tired and perhaps slightly older, but still Quentin Beck who had turned Peter into someone he never wanted to be. 

Peter didn’t bother giving Quentin an answer now, not as he hovered by the hospital door. 

“Well, I don’t look like I’m doing that great myself, do I?” Quentin asked now. He was smiling, as though they were friends. As though nothing had happened at all. 

“Okay, so that’s not working,” Quentin said at last, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. 

“No,” Peter replied, his heart hammering hard in his chest. “It’s not.” 

“Oh, so he can talk.” 

“Yeah,” Peter replied. “I can talk.” He braved a step forward. Braved because everything else in his body was screaming for him to run, run,  _ run away _ —but he took another step forward, both hearing and not hearing the sound of his shoe falling against the linoleum floor. “I can actually talk for myself this time.” 

“You must be proud. Feels good?” Quentin gave Peter a sardonic smile. 

Peter wondered if maybe this was a bad idea. Probably was a bad idea. 

But at the same time, he stepped forward again. If he didn’t do this now, then—

He had to do this now. 

“Why’d you come back?” Peter asked at last. He stopped at the foot of the bed. Started to move his hands into his pockets again, settled for keeping them at his sides instead. He forced himself to look at Quentin. “After everything—why’d you come back? Why couldn’t you just…” 

Quentin looked at Peter. “Why do you think, Peter?” 

Peter clenched his jaw. “You’re obsessed,” he said quietly.  _ With hurting people.  _

“You are, too.” Quentin’s cool eyes were fixed, unblinking on Peter. “Come on, Peter. Let’s be honest.” He shifted against the pillow, sat up slowly. “You’re obsessed, too.” He smiled. “Why’d you think you  _ stayed _ ?” 

“I didn’t,” Peter replied. “I left.” 

“No,” Quentin said, a corner of his lips curling upwards. “I’m not talking about  _ then _ . I’m talking about  _ now _ .” He set a hand on his lap. “You didn’t leave after you knew I was around. Why do you think that is?” 

Peter didn’t say anything. 

“You could have left,” Quentin said quietly, slowly. “Could have up and left with friends—family. How’s your good old aunt doing, anyways? She still living in the same place, too? I checked around there at first too, you know. Realized you weren’t there. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Quentin said, waving his hand. “I didn’t bother her. I didn’t need to waste my time.” 

“But  _ you _ ,” Quentin said. “You didn’t even bother picking yourself out of that stinkhole of an apartment.” He tilted his head at Peter. “I thought you’d go scampering off in the first second—thought that I might have to get back into the chase. Imagine how surprised I was when you  _ stayed _ .” He leaned back against the pillow. “Admit it, Peter. You’re just as obsessed.” 

Peter stared. 

Quentin smiled. 

“Do you think you’re going to get the same thing out of that...Tony?” Quentin asked. “Told you before—he’s a little older than I figured, but look at you—running after the same kind of people.” 

“Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” Quentin asked innocently. He shook his head. “Guys like him, Peter...guys like  _ us _ —when do you think it’ll start catching up to him? Getting in his head every single time he  _ looks  _ at you—this is  _ his  _ life now, too.” He tilted his head at Peter. “Do you think he likes it? Having a kid like you  _ need  _ him?” 

Peter didn’t respond, and Quentin didn’t go any further. The silence between them was pulled taut—waiting, waiting, waiting for someone to say something first. 

_ He was waiting _ , Peter realized, looking at Quentin. He was smiling some more now, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

“You know,” Peter said at last, “you were in my head for a really, really long time.” He lifted his eyes up to Quentin so that he was actually looking at him. Looking at him for  _ real _ . 

He half-expected for himself to flinch away under that cool gaze. 

But he didn’t. He didn’t feel anything at all, except maybe a heavy kind of weariness that Peter knew he had carried around for too long. 

Peter couldn’t wait to go back to sleep. 

“And this—what you’re doing right now—” Peter swallowed. “It’s just the same old tricks.” He set his hands on the foot of the bed and leaned forward. Again, he expected something in himself to tense, to push himself back—but nothing happened, except for that ever-present pounding in his chest. Peter decided that enough was allowed. 

“But here’s the thing,” Peter said quietly, and suddenly he thought of the other side of the hospital, where he had spent the last few days and nights waking up feeling warm for the first time in years. Actually calling and texting his friends and family  _ back _ . 

_ You know you’re not alone, right?  _

_ I’m not going anywhere.  _

Peter couldn’t wait to go back to sleep. And sleep, and sleep, and sleep, and wake up to something that wasn’t dread or panic or fear of monsters under the bed or in the closet or hovering outside his apartment. 

“You can’t trick me anymore.” 

And with that, Peter pushed himself away. He let his hands drop down to his sides. For once, he didn’t feel the need to hide them, shove them in his pockets. He turned around, didn’t bother waiting for whatever Quentin had to say. He didn’t need to hear it, he realized. 

Peter pushed himself out the doors. He nodded to Natasha. She nodded back, and there were some quiet words exchanged between herself and the others. 

“We’ll take care of the rest,” Natasha said. She jerked her head down the hallway. “You might wanna check down there, though. I think you’ve got some people waiting.” 

Peter blinked. 

And then he walked down the hallway, entered the courtyard.

He found May and MJ and Ned first—and then Tony. 

Peter smiled. 

\--

They spent the whole afternoon in the courtyard. 

MJ talked about how she was probably going to switch firms eventually—she had gotten some offers, and she was excited. (Well, excited meaning smiling a little more and speaking in shorter, quicker sentences. Peter pointed that out, and she smiled at her lap.) 

Ned talked about how he’d gotten a promotion—so instead of doing “really boring work”, he was going to do some “semi-less-boring work”. (Well, ‘semi-less-boring work’ meant that Ned just got to boss around some people. Ned said that he was probably going to wind up adopting all the interns, and that Peter was now going to be a godfather of said adopted interns. Peter didn’t mind.) 

May showed pictures of her new place—she’d gotten significantly more plants, all of which she swore that she would actually take care of. (She said that she got a book about plant keeping and everything, and she asked Peter if he knew anything about ferns. Peter didn’t. Tony did, though.) 

(Actually, it turned out that Tony knew  _ a lot _ about ferns. He looked at Peter and whispered, “ _ don’t you dare _ ” when Peter started laughing.) 

\--

“Tony?” 

“Mm?” 

“Do you want to go on a walk some time? After you’re...discharged?” 

“Are you…” 

“Hm?” 

“Are you asking me out on a date, Parker?” 

“Maybe?” 

Three seconds passed. 

And then: “huh.” 

“Tony?” 

“Mm?”

“Do you want…” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the internet at my campus decided to be annoying and not load, so I had to...once again, re-type everything on my phone, so here's to hoping there aren't any typos! 
> 
> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated! (And I know this might have read a bit like the ending, but we've got one more chapter left! I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been following this story thus far--you guys are amazing. Thank you!)


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want this, too."

Tony had one good reason to go back home, and it was waiting for him outside the doors of the hospital.

Peter's hair was still a little damp, and Tony realized that he must have just taken a shower. Peter was running a hand through the damp curls, his eyes focused on the pavement. He was still running his hands through his hair when Tony finally walked over.

"Trying to impress someone?"

Peter looked up quickly. "Tony—"

"Because just so you know," Tony said, "the hair's fine. But, of course, I'm flattered." He lifted his shoulders. "So, kid—are we doing this or what?"

\--

"Have you ever gotten lost here?"

"No."

"Really?"

"...once."

Peter grinned, adjusted himself on the rock. From their perch, they could see a corner of the pond at Central Park. A few families were sitting on the benches, and somewhere, Tony could hear string music. Peter's legs dangled over the edge of the outcropping.

"I got lost here once," Peter said. "When I was a kid. But I think that was the point." He lifted his legs from the edge, gathered his knees up to his chest. He folded his arms over them, rested his chin on his hands. "There was this other time I got lost, though. Boston Commons. Which is kinda dumb, because Boston Commons isn't that big, but I got distracted with some friends."

"I know," Tony replied.

Peter looked at him.

Tony gave Peter a sidelong glance. "The Internet exists."

"So you…"

"Might have looked you up once," Tony replied. At Peter's incredulous look, Tony added, "Back when I thought you were a peeping tom. Can you blame me?"

"You looked me up?" Tony couldn't read Peter's expression.

"Just the one time," Tony replied. He paused. "I went to MIT too, by the way."

"You—huh," Peter said. He turned back around to the pond.

"It was just the one time," Tony said. "If that's—"

"No," Peter said quickly. "No, Tony, that's not—" He paused. "Wait, did you see pictures of me from _high school_?"

"Maybe."

"Oh, _God_ —"

"Your hair was curlier back then—"

"Oh, _God_ —" Peter dropped his face into his knees.

"And you were a lot smaller…and I don't think I've seen so much _Star Wars_ memorabilia in one room before…"

Peter lifted his head from his knees. "You have to show me photos of yourself later," he said accusingly.

"Good luck."

Peter rolled his eyes and, dropping his head back to his knees, he looked back out at the water. Tony did the same. They watched a few ducks waddle around the pond, fly out of the water. After a while, Tony said, "I really did just look you up once though. That was it." He cleared his throat. "It got weird after...a minute."

"You can still look me up," Peter said. "It's not that weird anymore. And I think we're...kind of past that point anyways."

Tony paused. He looked at Peter.

Peter had his head still resting on his knees. His hair had mostly dried since they had gotten into the park, but Tony knew just from the shade and shape of Peter's curls where it would still be damp. He knew exactly where his fingers would curl through Peter's hair, and for a disorienting second, Tony wondered what would have happened if he did that just now—but something in him kept him still.

Tony looked back to the pond. Then, setting his hands on the rock, Tony leaned back a little.

"So where are we at now?" He kept his eyes focused on the water.

Peter didn't say anything for a while. Tony didn't, either. Or at least, he tried.

But the silence ticked by and stretched and ticked and stretched, and Tony looked at Peter again.

"I don't know," Peter said at last. "But I just know that we're past the normal stuff."

"Normal," Tony repeated with a huff of a laugh.

"Yeah." Peter sounded just as incredulous. And then he was looking down at his legs. They were nice legs. All of Peter was nice, Tony had realized.

They were both quiet.

And then Peter said, "I think that might be the thing."

"You're going to have to be a little more specific than that," Tony said.

Peter cast Tony a sidelong glance. "The thing," he repeated. "With us. Just…" He let out a breath. "I've been thinking. A lot. And…" He dropped his eyes back down to his hands. Or started to, but Tony lowered his head, tried to catch Peter's eye. And Peter, Tony realized with a small thrill, responded to it with a little quirk of his lips.

"And?" Tony asked.

"And," Peter said, color spreading across his face, "I...want to do the casual things. I _want_ …" Peter's voice drifted again, and this time he actually turned away.

Tony sat up. He resisted the urge to lean forward, drag Peter up to him. And a part of Tony desperately, desperately wanted to do that, because just like everything else about him, Tony found that he knew exactly where his hands would fit around Peter, somehow knew exactly how Peter would react if Tony so much as brushed against him. (Because they had spent the last few weeks curled together in a hospital bed. Tony had remembered and memorized the smell and feel of Peter's skin against him.)

"Peter."

"I want this," Peter blurted. He still wasn't looking at Tony. "I really, really want this."

"There's a _but_ in there."

Peter dipped his chin against his hands. "Yeah," he said quietly. "There's a _but_."

Tony looked at the water. A kid was sitting directly in front of the pond, holding his hand out to a curious duck.

"Okay," Tony said. "So there's a _but_. You're going to have to explain that part, too." But already, Tony's mind was drifting off to a certain night in a certain hotel room, with words like _crisis_ and _strangers_ and _sorry_ —

Tony schooled his expression into one of neutrality as Peter turned to look at him. A curl had fallen over his forehead, slipped close to his eyes.

"But do _you_ want this?"

Tony stared. "What are you—"

"Just." Peter lifted his head a little. "This whole time. From day _one_ , it's just been...this. Me, needing something, and you...there. At my door. And with everything, it's...a lot." His eyes lowered. Tony knew that Peter was looking at where the bullet had lodged itself.

"Peter," Tony said.

"If our lives were normal," Peter said, "I think we would have...done this differently, you know?"

"Differently how."

"Like…" Peter's eyes traveled back up to Tony's face. "Like, I'd still be the person who lives across from you. And you'd still be the person who lives across from me." He paused. "And I don't know. I'd probably actually be _going_ to work, and you'd just be heading out, too."

Peter's voice had gone soft. Tony had to shift a little closer just to hear.

"Okay," Tony said. "So what next?"

Peter paused.

"Come on," Tony said. "Can't leave a story like that."

Peter tilted his face up towards Tony. "I would like you a _lot_ ," he said. "I wouldn't mean to, but I know that you drink a lot of coffee and hate running."

Tony remembered the one time he had gone running with Steve. The first day they actually met—

"But there's a day," Peter continued, his voice growing quieter still, "when I run into you." He paused. "Or you run into me."

"My coordination is perfect," Tony said. "You'd run into me."

Peter's lips twitched. "Okay," he said. "I run into you. And then I apologize."

"And then I tell you _not_ to apologize, because my coordination is actually terrible," Tony said.

"And then you tell me not to apologize," Peter agreed. "And after that, I walk home happy because I just had my first-ever conversation with my very, very attractive neighbor."

"And _I_ walk home happy because I _also_ just had my first-ever conversation with my very, very attractive neighbor," Tony countered.

"I start timing when you leave for work so I could catch you when I leave, too," Peter said. "And we talk. It starts off as small talk. We both miss our stops to work."

"Little did you know that I actually noticed my stop but just decided not to come into work," Tony replied.

Peter dipped his head back to his knees, and then he looked back up, his face pinker than it had been a moment ago. Pinker and closer.

"And then we wind up getting off at a random stop," Peter said. "And we walk around for a long time."

"I grew up here, and you grew up in Queens," Tony said.

"And we both know Central Park," Peter said. "So we wind up heading in…"

"Sounds familiar," Tony said.

"We wind up heading in…"

Tony lowered his head on Peter's shoulder.

Peter stopped. He looked over at Tony.

"Nice story," Tony said. "But just so you know, I want _this_ too."

"Tony—"

"I mean it." Tony lifted his head from Peter's shoulder. "And if you want this—or if you need more time, because that's fine too—I _mean it_ ," Tony added as Peter started to turn away again. "Whatever you want, it's fine. But _this_ …" His voice drifted as Peter turned back around. "I want this too."

"It's not just a crisis thing?"

"That's my line."

Peter gave Tony a slight smile that disappeared too soon.

"Peter…" Tony lowered his eyes to Peter's face. Lower.

When he spoke, his voice was so much quieter than he thought it would be.

"I want this, too."

Peter's eyes lowered too. And then he looked back up.

"Okay," Peter said.

And then Tony kissed Peter.

Or maybe Peter kissed Tony.

Tony wasn't sure.

But their mouths found each other's—a soft, gentle kiss at first: a slight bump of their noses, a small breath exchanged—and then they were kissing again, this time a little harder, a little _more_ —

Tony wasn't sure how long they sat on top of that rock, and he wasn't sure if maybe they were bothering the tourists or the joggers or the families passing below them, but he didn't care.

He kissed Peter.

And Peter kissed him back.

\--

Hours later, when they were back in bed—not a hospital bed, but Tony's bed, Peter said, "I think I wanna do other things, too."

Tony dragged his eyes open. "Yeah?"

"We should go to the Hudson River," Peter said. "And have a road trip. I don't know where. But _some_ where." He paused. "Just. The list that you told me to think of. I want to do all that stuff with you. If that wasn't obvious."

"No," Tony said, turning. He dipped his forehead against the top of Peter's head. "It was obvious."

A quiet laugh from Peter.

"What else?"

"Let's get breakfast," Peter said after a little bit. "Or sleep in. We should do both. Both?"

"Sounds perfect." Tony closed his eyes. "Now go back to sleep."

"Okay."

\--

They slept in.

And they got breakfast.

And they took another walk by the Hudson.

And Tony held Peter's hand, and Peter held Tony's, and they didn't so much as glance at people who threw curious glances their way.

\--

It was another few months before either of them could actually get in a trip—but they did.

They drove through highways where it was only them and a few other cars, and Peter insisted on switching who got to drive.

One time, they both heard a truck backfire, and they both jumped.

But they found each other's hands, and they didn't let go.

\--

"Just so you know, I totally called it," Natasha said months later.

Tony cast his friend a sidelong glance. "What are you talking about?"

"You. Him," Natasha said, nodding at Peter, who was laughing at something Steve said. That was something that took some getting used to. Tony still remembered that conversation, and it still left a sour taste in his mouth, but Peter was happy, and Tony was happy, and Steve couldn't say anything about that.

"Yeah, and?"

" _And_ ," Natasha said, "I'm just saying that I called it."

Tony rolled his eyes. He picked up one of the flower crowns and tossed it at Natasha—because in the end, Natasha had relented to the flower crowns for the wedding.

Natasha caught the crown and set it on her head. "So," she said, nodding to Peter again, "when are you gonna do it?"

"Do what?"

"You know what."

Tony looked at Peter.

Peter looked at him and waved his hand forward. His face was a little pink and his eyes were a little bright from the dancing and the laughing and the champagne, and Tony knew that in just a few minutes, he'd be right next to him again.

"I don't know," Tony replied. "Later. Eventually. It's...a work in progress." He glanced at Natasha. "He almost found it, you know. Just last week—but he looked at my other pocket instead—"

Natasha snorted. "One of these days, he's actually gonna find it, you know."

"I know."

"So. When are you gonna do it?"

"Not on your wedding, if that's what you're worried about."

"Oh, I _know_ you wouldn't do it on my wedding— _but_ if there's more bells around the corner, I want to be ready."

Tony rolled his eyes again.

And when he turned back around, he found Peter walking towards him, his face still flushed from the dancing.

"You'll have to excuse me," Tony said, looking at Natasha. "My date's calling."

"As he should," Natasha said. "Probably sensed you're being interrogated."

Tony grinned. He had been doing a lot more of that lately, he realized.

"Come on," Peter said now, dragging Tony out of his seat. Peter was still laughing, and Tony was laughing too.

\--

They danced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [come say hello on my tumblr!](https://charonsdescent.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you so much for the support for this story over the last few months! I know real life has been kind of crazy so far, but updating this fic has truly been one of my own bright spots. I'm so grateful for each and every one of you, and I'm sending you all the love I can muster. :') 
> 
> I have another big project I'm working on that will *hopefully* be released in about 2-3 weeks, so if y'all are willing to join me on yet another big starker adventure, keep an eye out for that! 
> 
> But in the meantime, thank you again so, so, so much. Love you 3000.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to this AU. Hope ya'll will stick around. I'm planning to update once a week, most likely on Friday mornings. 
> 
> Comments/kudos/subscribes are always appreciated! <3


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